Legacy
by Irish Luck 19
Summary: One year ago, I came out of my arena a survivor, a victor, a monster. I thought there was nothing worse the Capitol could do to me, nothing left to take away. I was wrong.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: My beta's a lawyer. You want to sue, go ahead and try.

Thanks a bunch to the many incredible people who have helped whip this story into shape; my best friend Spanish Angel, beta extraordinaire EStrunk, my sisters, various English professors, etc.

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><p>Chapter 1.<p>

I wake up screaming. _Dad—blood—scalpel!_ It's a long moment before I recognize the nightmare for what it was, even longer before I realize I'm holding a knife in my hands as if it will somehow protect me. I lower it at once. The things in my head, the things I'm running from, aren't ones I can fight with a blade.

My heart isn't calming down, even though the nightmare has fragmented now, lost in the hundreds I've had since returning to District 7. I start to sit up, want to go poke up the fire or something, but then remember that I'm in the Victor's Village and have electricity instead. I switch on the lamp beside my bed, but the pale white glow isn't nearly as reassuring as the warm oranges and yellows I grew up around. It's too sterile, too bright, like an operating room. The thought's nearly enough to send me over the edge again.

I bite my lip viciously and switch off the light. Even the dark is better than _that_ memory. _Liv Caldwell, the fearless victor. Scared of the dark, and now scared of the light too._

As I lay back down, trying to make myself relax, I realize why I'm so nervous. It's not nearly a whole year after the Games. It's _exactly_ a year. Today it's some other poor kids' turns to be reaped, and I'm supposed to mentor them, watch as they either die horribly or become monsters like me. Or both.

_At least I'm safe from it this year,_ I realize. I'm still eighteen, but now that my Games are over, there's no way I can get sent back to the arena.

I lay there for another half an hour before I realize that the nervousness in my stomach isn't going to fade, and finally get up. I keep the lights off and ghost from my room to the kitchen, guided by instinct and memory. As a victor, I'm technically the only one assigned to live here, but the Capitol provides me with enough food and money that I'm more than able to support my two siblings. None of us like the arrangement, but after Dad . . . well, there was nowhere else for them to go. They might hate me for it, but they're still alive and they're never going to starve. That's something.

I'm not hungry, but I make myself cook anyways, watching through the windows as the sun slowly begins to rise. Petronius, the head of my old prep team, sent me an outfit—black, formfitting, something I might actually wear, surprisingly enough—but the focus is going to be on twenty-four other kids, and for once I don't have to mentally prepare myself to act in front of the cameras. Good thing too, because that hard knot of dread won't loosen in my stomach. I swallow some milk, but the one bite of eggs I take stick in my throat and refuse to budge.

There's the sound of the door creaking open and I ignore the urge to look up from my plate. If I stay very still, Mareen might not notice me until she's far enough into the room that it'd be stupid to walk out again. I know it's her; I heard footsteps in the hall and Kev never makes any noise when he walks. She's already made it to the bread before I hear her pause, feel her stare. My head jerks up and I return her look with a glare.

Kev is scared of me. Dad was ashamed of me. But Mareen's worse. She tries to pretend there's nothing wrong. That I'm still her best friend. It wouldn't be so bad except that she's a terrible actress and knows it, so she always tries to avoid me or, when that fails, blathers and sticks her foot in her mouth.

"Have some eggs," I say through clenched teeth, pushing my untouched plate towards her. Mareen grimaces and doesn't make eye contact.

"No. No thank you." She must be able to feel my glare because when she takes a seat, it's at the other end of the table. I sigh, remember how this time last year both of us were bantering in our small kitchen back home, trying to pretend that neither of us was scared. I'd give anything to go back to that easy friendship, but we've both changed too much. Mareen isn't as happy-go-lucky as she used to be and I'm . . . well, I don't know what I am, but I'm definitely not the naïve surgeon's daughter determined to learn enough to help the people in District 7 survive. If anything, I'm even more afraid now than I was then.

My gut helped me survive the Games. It told me who to trust, who to run from, who to fight. And right now it's writhing so hard that I'm surprised it hasn't burst out from my stomach like a living creature. The fragment of dream still stuck in my mind makes me think back to my father's funeral and that man . . . but I took care of that issue. There's no way he's coming back, and even if he did, there's no reason he would pick today to do it. So why does it feel as if it's come back around, my angry rejection bouncing back harder than ever?

I survived the Games. Why do I feel like a pawn?

The kitchen door creaks again—we really ought to fix that, I can afford the oil for the hinges now—and Kev pokes his head in, brown hair still tousled from sleep. At thirteen, he's a string bean, just starting to come into his growth spurts, helped along by the decent amounts of food he's been getting for the first time in his life. It's one of the few things I can appreciate about surviving the Games. I push the eggs towards him and even though he waits until I'm staring out the window again, I get the satisfaction of hearing the plate scraping against wood as he lifts it from the table. When you're a teenage boy, I guess you don't care _who_ makes your food so long as there's plenty of it.

"So do you both have your clothes picked out for the reaping?" I ask, keeping my voice nonchalant. Unlike Mareen, I'm a killer actress—quite literally—but I know they see straight past the forced casualness.

Mareen snorts lightly. "It's not that difficult. We don't have a prep team, Liv, it only takes a few minutes."

Ouch. I know she meant it to be lighthearted but, as usual, it came out flat. We finish the rest of breakfast in silence. Kev moves to do the dishes, but I wave him away and take care of it. Then I head to my room and look at the outfit my old team left for me.

Black, my trademark color during the Games. Silky and cool under my fingers but when I pull it on, instead of the cold I expect, the material feels warm on my skin. Pants rather than a dress or a skirt, and tight enough that you'd be able to see the shape of the underwear through it if Petronius hadn't sent specially made stuff. The shirt rides up just a little, showing a bare inch of my bony hips. It's as tight as the pants were, but at least long sleeved. I never went for sexy during the Games, and I'm a little uncomfortable I admit, but compared to a lot of the outfits you see during the Games this isn't too bad. And when I look in the mirror, I realize that they've somehow made me look dangerous—not an easy feat with my porcelain-pale complexion and short, frail build. The scar over my eye definitely helps, though, and the delicate features somehow seem menacing when I twist my lips into their habitual, arrogant smirk. I've kept my reddish brown hair as short as a boy's ever since the arena, so all I have to do is comb my fingers through it and I'm ready to go.

Something red catches my eye as I turn to leave. I look back at the mirror and see that there, on my back, Petronius has outlined an hourglass in scarlet ribbon. I twist an arm around my back, trace the bottom of it, and have to fight the sudden impulse to tear off my shirt and shred it to pieces. Maybe he's right. If today's going to be as bad as my gut is telling me, it might be a good idea for me to remind everyone in Panem just how dangerous I really am.

Mareen's in the living room, waiting for Kev, and I join her. She's wearing the dress I bought for her, blue, matching the ribbon that binds back her curly brown hair. She looks innocent, almost girlish with it, the opposite of me. Her eyebrows rise as she catches the hourglass on my back, but she doesn't say anything and I'm grateful.

Kev joins us a minute later, also in dark blue, and I'm pleased to notice that he fits in the suit I bought him; it was too big for him just a month ago, but the proper food really is doing him good. Luckily he doesn't notice my hourglass, perhaps because Mareen puts an arm around his shoulder and keeps him on the other side of me. They both look nervous—who wouldn't be?—but they're obviously trying not to show it, so I pretend not to see it.

I drop them off in the thirteen and sixteen sections, then make my way up to the stage where the other victors sit. I'm the only girl there, but Bren, my mentor from last year, saved me the seat next to him. He grins a bit as he takes in my clothes.

"Nice. Hope Petronius manages to pull off a theme that's just as good this year."

I grimace. I don't know how he can be so light-hearted. These are the fourth Games he'll be mentoring, but he's only two years older than me and somehow he seems completely at ease here.

"Come on, Liv, cheer up," he says, "I know you hate giving in to the Capitol's orders, but at least we're alive, right? And if nothing else they'll keep your family safe to ensure that you do what they want, so—"

"What are you talking about Bren?_"_

He cocks his head at me and slowly something in his face changes. "You don't know? Didn't Catiline send someone to talk to you about this? He must have, I met with someone two months before I went back to the Capitol and I can't imagine. . . Liv?"

My intuition was right. Something is very, _very _wrong. "He. . . yes, he sent someone, but—but I didn't—"

Bren grabs me by the shoulder and I shut up, realizing that the cameras might already be rolling. I make my face into the smooth, smirking mask I mastered so well during my Hunger Games, and neither one of us speaks again. I can feel the tension though, and it seems like five hours rather than five minutes until our escort, Janus, swaggers onto the stage, long purple ponytail bound behind his head, face coated with white make-up.

"A very happy Forty-Ninth Hunger Games to you all!" he calls out to the crowd. "And may the odds. . ."

I tune him out, lost in a strange sense of unreality. Catiline. The man was from Catiline, Snow's right hand man, the one who runs the Games. Rumor is that he's even worse than Snow, although either of them is bad enough. We in the Districts mostly hope their continual power struggles will end with both of them dead. And instead of keeping my head down, staying out of their turf war, I took his envoy and. . .

It's everything I can do to keep my mask up, to stare straight ahead as first Janus and then the mayor start speaking. My hand dangles over the side of my chair and Bren casually drops his too, lets me feel the comforting pressure of the back of his hand on mine. It helps. A little. Enough that I can stand and acknowledge the crowd as the lists of previous District 7 victors is read, the people roaring in approval when they reach my name. My face is unmoving, the only sign of emotion my trademark smirk that doesn't reach my eyes. What I did in the arena destroyed my life and family, but the District thinks of me as its hero. A hero. I sit back down feeling sick.

Janus is back on stage, shouting "Let's do the ladies first this year, shall we?"

I watch his fingers scrabble around in the little glass ball, suspicion hitting me like an axe in the stomach. No. No, Catiline wouldn't—

"Mareen Caldwell!"

Every camera is trained on me now, and it's all that keeps me from falling over. My sister, my _sister_! I want to jump out of my chair, volunteer for her, push her away, save her, _something!_

But I can't volunteer. I'm a victor. Safe from the Games.

Just like that man promised, I'm paying.

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><p><em>"I really am sorry, Miss Caldwell."<em>

_The man's face is puffy, round, as ridiculous as his Capitol accent, as the idea that his shallow little mind can feel anything like sorrow. The last of my father is burning on the funeral pyre in front of us, ash and snow falling together, and all he can do is try to make conversation._

_I turn away. It's traditional to stay until the fire has turned him to ash and bone, but I can't take this anymore. The wood is wet, compliments of the snow, and the smoke is blowing straight into my stubbornly dry eyes, but honestly they're the least of my problems. Funny that I can deal with the most gruesome deaths in the arena, can cause them, and here I can't stand a simple funeral._

_The Capitol man follows me, fat little legs having to trot to match my quick strides. "Miss Caldwell, this may seem like the wrong moment, but I have a business proposition I simply _must _mention to you."_

_Business? My father committed suicide less than a day ago, is being burned twenty feet away, and this man wants to discuss _business?

_My instincts from the Games take over. Like I did in the arena, I keep any anger or fear from my face, instead make it look casually interested. I'm always at my most dangerous when I seem friendly. "Walk with me," I suggest, putting just a hint of a question into it._

_He's stupid. I didn't earn the nickname of Black Widow for nothing, but he's stupid enough to follow me as we pass out of sight of the funeral, the people on the street, to the deserted, slushy back alleys of District 7. I raise my eyebrows at him as we walk._

_"What sort of proposition?"_

_"It's traditional for former Tributes to return to the Capitol on a yearly basis, mentoring and assisting the new Tributes in their Games."_

_"I know that already." I fold my arms, allowing a hair of impatience to tinge my voice. The man clears his throat._

_"What you may not yet be aware of is that it is also traditional for these mentors to then entertain some of the Capitol's most prominent citizens." It's a prepared speech, I can tell; his squeaky Capitol accent has taken on an extra round of pompousness. Entertain. I don't need the twisting in my gut to figure it out. "It both fosters good relationships between the districts and the Capitol and provides you with a means to—"_

_"Cut the crap. What do you want from me?"_

_He blinks, then pulls out a crumpled, greasy piece of paper from his pocket. "If you would be so kind as to make yourself available to these people during the course of the next Hunger Games, it would mean very much to—"_

_My fist snaps into his face, grabs him by the collar, yanks him close. My knee jolts into his groin like a battering ram, and suddenly my grip is the only thing holding him up as his breathing turns to pained squeaks._

_"Do you really think," I shake him by the collar like a dog holding a rat, "That I am _ever_ going to give in to one more filthy Capitol demand? That you can come in during _my father's funeral_ and start ordering me around? He's dead! He killed himself because of what you turned me into, and you expect me to bend over backwards one more time?"_

_"Please—"_

_The knife is in my free hand before I even think, stabs into his trapezius, that fleshy triangle connecting neck and shoulder. He screams and I wait for him to stop before I yank it back out and wipe the blade clean on his shoulder, careless of if he's nicked by the edges, then toss him to the slushy ground. I replace the knife in its arm sheath, thanking Bren for the paranoia he instilled in me, making me carry the blade with me everywhere._

_"That's the most of me any Capitol scum is going to get," I hiss, kicking the bloody hole. He moans and I kick it again, harder, for good measure, that same sick pleasure rising up in me like it did in—_

_But my father wouldn't have wanted me to do this. The thought makes me pause on the verge of turning him into a bloody, broken pulp. My father killed himself, stabbed himself in the heart, because he couldn't take me turning into this. I swallow and turn away, head back towards the thin pillar of smoke where my father's pyre is still burning._

_"You'll be sorry!" he calls out after me, Capitol accent even shriller with the pain. "You can't just turn this down!"_

_I don't look back as I leave him bleeding on the filthy cobblestones. He won't die from the stab, but it's a rough neighborhood. If I'm lucky, one of the thugs living in this part of the District will get annoyed with the noise and finish him off._

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><p>But now I am sorry, just like he promised. My little sister is out there, standing where I did one year ago, chin up, back tense with no one to take her place. Yes, I am sorry.<p>

If I'd known he was from Catiline would things have changed? I'd like to think so, but to be honest I just don't know. And as sorry as I am that Mareen's the one who has to pay for my mistake, the truth is that I feel angrier than ever too, that if I saw Catiline or that little Capitol freak again, I'd kill him like I'd wanted to the first time. As slowly and painfully as the black widow bite itself.

Janus's hand is scrambling around the boy's glass ball, but my eyes are trapped on Mareen. I don't even hear the name called, just Bren's gasp.

And I look. My head turns, eyes staring through the crowd as someone pushes from nearly the back of the crowd, one of the youngest kids . . .

Kev.


	2. Chapter 2

Trivia/Easter egg hunt! Throughout this fic, I've embedded several small shoutouts to authors that have been a big influence on my writing. This chapter has two for anybody who's interested in finding them.

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><p>Chapter 2.<p>

Bren reaches up, grips my shoulder hard. I'm not entirely sure why. Doesn't he realize that every camera in Panem is looking at me right now, that if I show the slightest sign of weakness it will lessen their chances of survival? I raise an eyebrow at him, but he doesn't let go, so I jerk my chin up and watch the proceedings, trying to just ignore him.

Kev finishes climbing the stage and I am relieved to see that, while he looks scared, he's got it under control. He's not crying at least, and even though I can't see Mareen's face, her back is straight, her chin held high. Janus makes them shake hands, and then presents them to the crowd. There is a smattering of applause—maybe they think my siblings have a chance of winning because of me, maybe they're just glad it's not their own kids—but it's not nearly as loud as usual, and I can hear several mutters over it. Both my siblings drawn? District 7 isn't _that _stupid; they know Catiline's behind this.

They're led away to the Justice Building and I realize that I should go; as family, I can meet with Mareen and Kev, talk to them, start to prepare them. I try to shift my weight, and suddenly Bren's unwanted hand is the only thing keeping me from falling. He's standing up now, arm shifting to support me, leading me out of sight of the cameras, down and out from the stage area. I want to protest, but for some reason my voice isn't working right and I end up being half-carried by him. A few people in the crowd watch us, but they all have the common courtesy to stay back.

He waits until we're out of sight of the crowds, then turns to me, dark brown eyes as solemn as the day before my Games. "Are you all right?"

_Shouldn't he be asking my siblings that? They're the ones going into the Games._ I try to form the words but, again, nothing comes out.

"Damn it, Liv!" His hand swings at me before I can block, there's a crack, a flash of pain and red in my face and I'm blind. Instinctively, my hand reaches up, touches the hand print I know is already forming on my jaw. I can only imagine what the cameras will make of _this._

"You slapped me." My voice is blank, mechanical, but at least I'm speaking. Bren sighs out in relief.

"Yes. Liv, one or both of your siblings are going to die no matter what you do. You and I know that. But you need to go in there acting even better than you did in the arena. Convince them there's still some way it'll all be ok. Lie to them. Can you do that?"

It's the same voice he used on me as a mentor, the one that somehow convinced me to pay attention, to learn the things that were key to my survival. I nod, straighten my spine.

Without a word, he turns, leads me into the Justice Building, up three flights of stairs. I'm following him still, but only because he's walking faster than my short legs can keep up with without trotting. I know the way to this room.

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><p><em>"Dad?"<em>

_"Oh, Livy." He holds out his arms to me and I bury my face in his shoulder, unable to stop trembling. I'm glad Mareen and Kev aren't here; they shouldn't see me fall apart._

_"What am I going to do, Dad? All I can think about… all I can think about is Mrs. Collins and how I promised I'd be there when her baby's born. And how you need me to run by the Rowling's house to check on their son and—and—and how Mareen can't assist in operations, so you're going to be stuck on your—"_

_"Livy. It's alright."_

_"No it's _not!_ There are a lot of things this is, Dad, but 'alright' isn't one of them." I push away and the tears I'd been holding back start to dribble down my cheeks. I swat them off my face. "Twenty-three innocent kids are going to die in the next few weeks, Dad, and I'm going to be one of them! It's not alright!"_

_"You've seen people die before."_

_"But I was always trying to _save_ them, Dad." Why doesn't he understand this? He was always one of the only people who could really get me. "Now . . . now, even if I'm not the one killing them, I'm going to be glad when they die! Because it means I might live! They're turning me into a monster."_

_"Only if you let them."_

_"What?" My father is watching me soberly and my confusion only increases. "What choice do I have?"_

_My father sighs. "You can play this their way, Livy. And you're smart and strong enough that you might survive if you do. Or you can try it your way."_

_"My way?"_

_"Your way. When you were a kid, you risked your neck to get Mareen down from that tree when she climbed too high. And when you were 15, I was furious with you for taking out tesserae to feed the Masons, remember?"_

_"Mrs. Mason had just had Johanna.__ They were going to starve with her husband dead," I protest. Was it one of those tesserae that sent me into the Games? "I'd do it again if I got the chance!"_

_"That's just my point!" Dad exclaims. "You put others first, Livy. Always. The Games don't have to change that."_

_And suddenly I get what he's saying. He doesn't want me to survive. He wants me to beat them. To remain myself. To win. I swallow, feel my face harden, a plan suddenly forming, clicking together like the wheels of a clock. Others first. I can do that. "Don't let anyone else in to see me," I whisper, "Not Mareen or Kev or. . . or anyone. I need to get rid of these tear traces before I'm back on camera, and I don't know if I can do it with them around. Just make sure they know I love them and. . . and tell them I said good-bye."_

_My father smiles at me slowly, sadly. I'm worried that he might hug me again, and I'll go through the whole crying thing no matter how hard I try, but all he does is bend in and kiss me on the forehead._

_"Good-bye, Livy."_

_His words have a finality to them; he knows it's the last time we'll speak to each other. He doesn't look back and I wait for thirty seconds, long enough for him to leave the hall, hopefully reach the waiting room where my siblings are, before I poke my head out the door. The two Peacekeepers on guard turn and frown at me and I decide to put them to use before they can order me back in._

_"Cold water!" I snap, "I want cold water, rags, and a mirror."_

_They trade looks and then one darts off to get the supplies. I stand waiting at the doorframe, arms folded impatiently, back ramrod straight. No more weakness. No more pain. I have thirty minutes to wash away the tear tracks, to become the image of a stone cold killer._

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><p>Mareen and Kev are together, in the same room I was left in for my Games. I guess they figure siblings will get the same visitors anyways. No one else is inside yet—immediate family always gets to visit first in District 7. I sweep inside, Bren following behind me, shutting the door and standing there with his arms folded. Just like in the arena, he has my back.<p>

I don't know what I was planning to say; something inspiring or comforting or big-sisterly maybe. But Kev has his face buried in Mareen's shoulder and she's obviously trying not to cry too, and even though it makes my heart break, I know I can't allow it.

Weakness. Is. Death. Our father managed to convince me to pull myself together, now I need to figure out a way to do the same with them.

"Kev? Mareen?" They don't respond to my gentle tone.

I know my brother and sister. They're not going to listen to me right now unless I make them, but I doubt Bren will approve of my methods. I turn to him, remembering my own request in this room. "Can you get me some water? They need their faces clean. And send away the other visitors. We won't have time to deal with them."

"Liv. . ." He knows me too well, realizes that I'm trying to get him out of there. I sigh.

"Do you trust me?"

It's a ridiculous question to ask. I'm the Black Widow, the one who survived by deception and moves that no one was expecting. But Bren. . . maybe it was the arena, where I was so dependent on him, maybe it's that he's the only one besides the Gamemakers who saw what I actually tried to do during the Games, but he and I understand each other. Even monsters can try to protect their families, right? How else would the species survive? Slowly, very slowly, he nods, leaves the room. I wait for the door to click shut, then make my face stern.

"Kev Caldwell, you have exactly ten seconds to get your face out of Mareen's shoulder and dry your eyes off. Cry on the train. Mareen, focus. Panic isn't going to do you any more good than a stick of firewood against a black bear."

Kev does what I ask, surprisingly enough, but Mareen just stares at me. Her eyes are blank with horror, and I grab her hard by the shoulder, worried that she's gone into shock or something. She winces and looks at me, slowly pulling herself from the stupor. "What are we going to do?"

"Survive. Mareen, you're going to survive, you hear me? You _will_ get out of this, but you have to do exactly what I say."

"But—"

"Now listen, you two didn't do horrible on the stage but, as my siblings, when you get on the train they're going to watch for—"

"What if I don't want to survive? What if I would rather die before. . . before. . ."

"Before you become like me?" We don't have time for this. I give a harsh, bitter laugh. "Fine, then. Go ahead and die Mareen. You leave Kev on his own in there."

"I didn't mean—"

"No. And you didn't think either. You want him to make it out of this? You're going to do whatever it takes. Or he dies. Your choice."

"Stop talking about me like I'm not here!" There are traces of tears on Kev's face, but he glares right back at me, mouth set stubbornly. Huh. He's always been so quiet around me since I came back, I figured his spunk had been worn down by everything he'd seen me do. Clearly I was wrong. Maybe the kid really does have a chance of making it through this.

I make sure to meet his eyes when I nod. He relaxes a bit, although he's still watching me intently.

Mareen, on the other hand, looks like she's on the edge of a meltdown. She's staring at me with all the horror she held back when I came back from the Games, even after Dad killed himself. I find something between a smile and a snarl twisting my face. "You want to hate me, Mareen? Fine, but I'm also the only one left who gives a damn if you stay alive. So stop cringing at me and listen up!"

Not helping. If anything, her face goes whiter. I feel a twisting in my gut as I realize what I have to do to bring her back. If I'd come in here nice and comforting from the start, maybe she could have pulled herself together well, but that tree's already cut. Hell, it's been put through the lumber mill and carved into furniture.

"Weakling. Coward." I spit the words as if they're poison in my mouth. "So stuck in your own little dream world, so full of yourself because all the boys are in love with you. It's not so nice when you get slapped in the face by reality, is it?"

She looks as sickened as if I'd punched her, but underneath that I catch a small, almost non-existent, glint in her eye. Anger. I dig in deeper with my words, slice the rest of her apart to reach it. It's the most brutal surgery I've ever done. "Go ahead. Curl up and die. And while you're dying, think of how now Kev needs you, will die without you. Think of how you could have done something for him and didn't. And how it's all. . . your. . . fault."

Mareen slaps me hard across the face. She's not as fast as Bren, I could have blocked if I'd wanted, but I figure I deserve that and more.

"My fault? _My _fault? Don't think I can't figure out that something's up, them choosing me and Kev together! You did something didn't you, Liv? You brought this on us, sent us in here, and you're trying to slough the blame onto _me! _How dare—"

"Should I. . . come back later?"

Bren is standing there, holding a basin of water in his hands, face so smooth I can tell he's trying to hold back emotions. Mareen transfers her glower from me to him, then nearly shoves him aside as she leaves the room, slams the door behind her. He turns to me. "Do you want me to go after her?"

"No." I should feel triumphant, but I'm just tired. How can it only be noon? "No, the Peacekeepers will make sure she doesn't go too far for now. I'll figure out something more long term on the train. Kev, come here, I'm going to clear the tear stains off of you."

He obeys, and for the first time since I got back, he's looking me straight in the eye. A curious look rather than accusing. "You wanted her to do that, didn't you?" he asks. "Be angry, so when she goes on the train, she'll look strong instead of afraid?"

I start washing at the tear stains, only months of experience keeping the surprise from my face. "Mareen needed to pull herself together, and that was all I could think of."

"Was what she said true?" His voice is low, but he's watching me closely. "_Did_ you do something to push us into this?"

He's not a child anymore. I don't know if I just didn't notice when I came back or if he grew up in the 30 minutes since he was reaped, but at thirteen he's already a man. I can tell by the way he's watching me, holding himself. . . he deserves the truth. "Yes." My throat feels thick, but I viciously push my emotions down. "I would never have done it on purpose, but I made a mistake and you were reaped to punish me. I'm so. . . Kev, I'm so sorry."

"It's alright," he says, swallowing a bit, smiling as I pull the washcloth back to survey him. The tear traces are already starting to fade from his face and his blue eyes are calm. They'll be gone by the time he has to leave. For some reason, he reaches out and pats me on the back.

Absurd. I'm the one who got him into this mess, I'm eighteen and he's thirteen, and he's the one about to die. But somehow _he's_ the one comforting _me._


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the Hunger Games. Nor do I own LOST, whose non-linear storytelling was a huge inspiration, or Lasgalendil's Batman fic _Ernestina_ which showed me how well flashbacks can work in fanfiction.

You know, I should probably just admit that I'm a broke college student, who basically owns nothing of importance.

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><p>Chapter 3.<p>

I wait in the train for Mareen and Kev, Bren at my side. Cameras are watching me through the thin glass window, but even with hand-shaped probably bruises forming on either cheek, I don't care. I've got myself under control.

"That was impressive."

I don't turn to Bren. His voice is off-hand, as if commenting about the weather, but I can tell he's serious. "You know Mareen's chances of surviving are low unless she listens to you, don't you? You may have helped her get the train alright, but now you'll be lucky if she does anything else for you."

"I'll figure something out. One step at a time, right?"

"Until you trip because you didn't realize you'd reached the edge of a cliff."

I finally turn from the window, give Bren a wry glance. "You're one to talk. You almost lost your Games charging straight into that covered pit Durzo dug at the end, and you complain about _my_ lack of foresight?"

"Maybe it just means that I know what I'm talking about," Bren shrugs. "And that sort of thoughtlessness was never your style anyways. All I'm saying, Liv, is that you've got to be careful. You've got Kev on your side, but he's going to need Mareen in there. Remind her of that."

I meet his eyes and nod slowly, then turn to look outside again. Mareen. How to deal with her? "Have you contacted Petronius yet? I need to ask him a favor. A tough one."

"After he got famous designing for your Games, I think you could ask him for the moon and he'd do it."

"I need him to make both Kev's and Mareen's costumes this go-round." My nails click as I drum my fingers against the wooden pane of the window. "He was already scheduled to do the girl's, but the boy's. . . I know it's short notice, but I still trust him more than any other stylist and he's good at coming up with things on the fly. Call him for me?"

"Alright." Bren leaves, and I'm standing at the window alone when the cameras all swivel from me to the Justice Building. One of my siblings is coming out.

Kev. He's looking straight at the train instead of the cameras, face set. Something is oddly familiar in his expression . . .

It's like mine, I realize. Perfectly straight, eyes fastened on something so as not to give anything away, walk calm and confident but without swagger. A faint smirk is the only sign of emotion on his face—a hint of arrogance, a hint of disdain. As if he knows something the rest of us don't. I hope one of the commentators notices the similarities, associates it with my strength in the arena.

I leave the window to greet him as he enters the train, and he keeps his mask on until I've closed the door. Even then, his face is still calm.

"Well done," I tell him, leading him to a windowless section of the car where he'll be safe from the cameras. "Stay here. I'll be back in a minute."

"Where are you going?"

"To watch for Mareen."

"Then I'm coming too." He folds his arms and looks me in the eye. "We're a family. The three of us need to stand together."

I watch him for a minute, try to gauge whether he can handle it, then nod. He trots after me like a puppy, but when we reach my window his face is as solemn as mine.

Mareen's entrance is as dramatic as Kev's was calm. Her eyes are still rimmed red but it actually adds to the glare she directs at the cameras, each and every one in turn, as she leaves the doorway. Then she tosses her head, long curls flicking impressively behind her, and ignores them. Her chin's in the air, stride quick and aggressive, and when I meet her at the door she glides past me without a glance. She stays in the corridor, but she's not looking at Kev or I and her back's all stiff. After a minute the train lurches and begins to move, and it's as if it was a signal to all three of us that we can move again.

"Mareen," I begin. Her gaze finally swings to me, eyes hard and furious, mouth set in a straight line.

"Save it, Liv. I don't care anymore."

"I'm sorry, Mareen. You're right. This is my fault, and I ended up taking it out on you and that was—"

"You and I both know it wasn't that! You think I can live with you for sixteen years and not figure out what you were up to? You played me!" Mareen steps up, finger pointing straight in my face. "You have no right—"

And just like that, my temper snaps.

I seize the hand jabbing at my face and twist, wrenching it around and down. "You're in the Hunger Games! You expect me to care about what's _right_ if it will keep you alive?" Mareen gasps, goes up on her toes to get more slack. A hair more, and I'll break her wrist.

I hate this move. Hate it. Every time I use it, I become a bully, a fraud, exactly what Mareen accuses me of being.

And the worst part is, she's right.

* * *

><p><em>Kronos, my district partner, charges into the empty training room for the weights, but I wait, look around carefully. We got here before anyone else—me because Bren told me I needed every bit of practice I could manage, him because, after the chariots, he isn't going to be outshone in anything. The instructors race after him to pin a number on him and try to make him wait for the others, but he's obviously not listening. After a minute they shrug, attach a number to me as well, explain a couple of rules, and back off to let us practice.<em>

_This is as much showmanship as it is actual skill; I need to create the illusion that I have a lot more talent than I actually do. Bren worked on knives with me on the train and last night, but I want to save that one until the last day when I'll at least look competent. I could work with another weapon, but the odds are one of the Careers will specialize in it and getting shown up would be fatal, at least with my plan. Besides, to be honest, I just don't know if I can handle it. Weapons, stabbing someone, practicing making them bleed . . ._

_I move over to the hand to hand combat section. I've never really learned about this either, but I know how to throw a punch, and hours spent helping Dad slice through tissue and bone in surgery strengthened my arms more than you'd think. I figure that plus my knowledge of the human body gives me a decent base. I spend some time punching one of the test dummies, going for sensitive spots and nerve clusters, then listen to one of the instructors as she teaches me about joint locks. Like setting a disjointed bone, just in reverse. I can do that. If I imagine it's not a person._

_I ask to spar with an instructor, but as we step into the small, padded circle, the panic I've shoved aside rises up. How am I supposed to do this? Pretend that I'm going to kill him? What's it going to be like when I really do kill? But if I just stand there I'll—_

_He throws me to the ground while I'm trying to talk myself into punching, and my breath whooshes out. I struggle to get my wind back, stand up, and then spot the elevator opening out of the corner of my eye. Bad enough that Kronos knows I'm hesitant about this; if the Careers come in and see how pathetic I am, my fledgling plan is gone. No time to moralize._

_"Again," I spit, falling into the 'ready' position they taught me. The instructor either doesn't see my change in attitude or doesn't care. I take two punches to the stomach, block two more, then on the fifth get lucky. I dodge, he doesn't pull his guard up in time, and I manage to swing the blade of my hand into the joining between jaw and neck. My point. And it can knock unconscious with sufficient force. I swallow back bile and keep my face expressionless, glance around me._

_The Careers walked in midway through the performance, and although they're largely ignoring me, I notice the boy from 2 raise his eyebrows. I should move on before they see the instructor was going easy on me and that it was mostly a fluke._

_The room's filled up in the time I've been working; the Careers were the last ones downstairs. There's a tiny blond girl from District 10 who's fighting with the instructor in the other ring. I can tell he's playing nice with her, but she's pretty good too; every time he tries to get a grip on her, she somehow slides her thin frame right out. As I watch, she slips free again, kicks, and suddenly he goes down, holding his crotch. I have to stifle a grin, but her face floods with red and instantly she's at his side, apologizing over and over again._

_Well. She's not going to survive long if she's that sort of person. Nor am I. Not unless . . . I shake myself and move on to the running station. Time to show the Gamemakers what else I can do._

_Sprinting's not my thing, but I've always been good at distance running and, as long as you're not ambushed, endurance is often a bigger factor than speed. I remember a girl from District Six who managed to run an entire pack of Careers into the dust one year, then circled around while they were exhausted and took out three of them.__Still, I'm supposed to be learning, and I want to take my mind off things anyways, so I pause after a couple of warm up laps around the large indoor track and ask the knot instructor if she's willing to teach while jogging. She looks surprised, as do the Tributes close enough to hear us, but there's no one else at her station and she's obviously fit. She talks me through the basic principles of a couple of snares, disguising them, even delves a bit into other traps that involve pits and boulders, then we slow to a walk and she actually shows me the knots with a bit of rope._

_I'm feeling good, warmed up, most of my hesitance burned off. The others have either already left for lunch or are finishing up at their stations but I wait, look through the table of edible plants for a minute. I'm pleased to realize I know a good number of the berries and nuts, along with nearly all the herbs from our medicinal garden back home. Yarrow for antiseptic and a primitive antibiotic, willow bark for pain relief, stick nettle whose sap can hold wounds together. The last one gives off a pungent scent as I rub a leaf between my fingers, then turn to go inside._

_The lunch room has several tables. I take a seat on my own, back to the wall, watching everyone else as much as the food, trying to gauge them. Most of the tributes have bunched together in one corner, well away from where the Career pack is eating, but Kronos is sitting close to them, clearly trying to join. They haven't precisely let him in, but they aren't pushing him away either._

_He looks up, trying to pretend he's not being ignored, and his eyes settle on me. I've been ready for this, waiting for it really, but I still don't want to do it. Go on. Turn away._

_He doesn't. "Thinking of joining us, Caldwell? Sorry, you need to be tall enough to see over the table first."_

_"Joining _you?_" I snort. "No thanks. The people you're with? Maybe. But you need to have more than sawdust between your ears before you'll be one of them."_

_The District 2 boy barks a laugh and Kronos's face flushes. "You think you're so clever, huh? That's not going to get you far in a few days."_

_"You're right. I'll have to stay and finish the fight in the arena while the rest of you are going much further. All the way back to your district, in fact, for your funerals. You'll be one of the first." I don't want him to die. I don't want any of us to die. But I saw him while I was running. He was marking out targets, trying to intimidate them. The blond from 10, the boy and girl from 6. . . The ones who are youngest, most vulnerable. If I'm going to have to kill, Kronos seems like a better candidate than most._

_His eyes narrow, and I know that I've been moved to the top of his target list too. If I wasn't there already. I fight both the fear and the adrenaline it's causing; I need to play this cool._

_"So you think a few brain cells are going to keep you from dying when I get my hands on you? I could lift you in one hand and snap your spine with the other."_

_I laugh. I can't help it. Here I was, watching for the chance, and he practically handed it to me. "Lift _me?_ You can't even lift the chair I'm sitting on."_

_His eyes narrow. Kronos isn't completely stupid no matter what I said. "What's your trick, Caldwell?"_

_"No trick," I promise, getting up and walking away, chair in one hand. "I'll pick up this seat, then you'll try to do the same thing. Won't succeed though."_

_He looks more suspicious than ever, but he can't exactly say much as I reach the wall, set the chair down, and fold my arms impatiently, waiting. He walks over, and the Careers follow behind him. I can see some of the other tributes craning their necks, trying to see past my audience without getting out of their seats._

_"What, you just want me to pick it up?" He reaches for the chair and I catch him by the hand, turning it like I was just taught, nearly breaking the wrist. He goes up on tiptoe._

_"Not quite like that." I grin wolfishly, try not to think about the tendons and bones I'm straining. Am I really going to do this? Wasn't the whole idea of this to stay human? To win rather than survive? "Watch me first."_

_I don't want to turn my back on him—I don't want to be turning my back on anyone in this crowd—so I deliberately make my posture and voice even more cocky as I do. "You're going to face the wall like I am. Feet just under the chair, and your head leaned against the wall." It feels odd, the way my newly cropped hair just. . . ends. I'm used to having my long brown hair hanging down around my face, weighing down my head, as I make this demonstration. "All you have to do is stand like this, reach under the chair, lift it up—" I show him—"And then stand."_

_I straighten, chair in my hands, then put it back. I turn to face him, one hand on the wall over the chair, the other on one stuck out hip. It's a posture I've seen other girls use, one that somehow combines both provocative and challenging. Exactly the opposite of how I feel._

_Kronos looks close to laughing. "That's it? Lift the chair and stand up?"_

_"That's it," I say. I give him a sunny smile for good measure and move so he can get into position. For some reason I stand next to the District 2 boy. Of the Careers, he seems like the one most likely to give me a chance._

_Kronos walks his feet out, sticks his head on the wall, grasps under the chair. . . and strains. And keeps straining. His muscles start to bulge, his neck and face go red, but he can't seem to move the chair under his chest. The boy next to me has his eyes narrowed, trying to understand, but the others are simply enjoying his humiliation. The District 2 girl gives a cruel, hard sort of titter. I feel a twinge of shame in my stomach that I push down._

_It takes another thirty seconds or so of struggling for Kronos to give up. He drops the chair, his spine straightens—_

_"ARGH!"_

_The rest of the room jumps. Kronos's back is arched, he's bracing both hands against the wall as if trying to push free, but his head remains against the wall. He's stuck. He tries to pull back, but his head just won't come free. His eyes roll in their sockets, find me._

_"CALDWELL! WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?"_

_I force that smirk back onto my face, but every emotion in me is spinning so fast that I feel like I'm about to tear apart. I can't keep the act up. I turn on my heel and walk out, back to the training room._

_The room's empty so I take a moment to sniff, blink away tears. I don't want to hurt him. I don't want to hurt anyone. I don't. Not even Kronos. And I essentially did just that. He's gone from almost-Career to prime target. He'll be lucky to last through the Cornucopia._

_"Hey."_

_I spin, instantly putting that mask of cool indifference back on my face. It's the boy from District 2 again, the Career, but he doesn't look threatening. Just curious. "What happened back there?"_

_I shrug, keep my tone brusque. "Stick nettle sap. I slapped it on the wall right before he went. It won't hold unless you press hard against it for a good fifteen seconds, but once it's set . . ." Another shout from the lunch room explains for me._

_He looks at the herb table and seems to understand. "Very clever. And the chair?"_

_"Just a party trick, really. Women and men have different centers of gravity," I say. "Women's tend to be lower—especially for short ones like me—and men's tend to be higher, especially when they're bulky like he is. When you press against the wall, a high center gets offset. You might be able to lift it if you tried. Your physique's more lightweight and you're a bit shorter too."_

_He laughs again. "I don't think I'll risk it with you around."_

_To my surprise, I find that I'm smiling a bit and my calculating mind catches up. This may be the chance I've been looking for. I hold out a hand. "Liv Caldwell."_

_"Dannis Luster." Even though I'm the one who held out the hand, I'm still surprised when he shakes. "Listen, I have a proposition for you. Our team is good this year, but we're one short. The District 4 girl broke her arm yesterday falling out in the chariot ride. It's fixed, but there's no way she's going to be able to join us anymore. If you want, I can talk to the rest of the team. I mean, no promises or anything, but if you're as good with weapons as you are clever. . ._

_Right. In other words, show them that my tough talk isn't exactly what it is, a desperate bluff, and I'm in. It's the best I could have hoped for, and still horribly out of my reach. I smirk at him. "That depends. Are your allies as stupid as Kronos?"_

_Dannis grins and I saunter away, press the button for the elevator._

_"Where are you going?"_

_"I think I've gotten all I wanted out of training today." Right on cue, Kronos shouts something again. It sounds like an obscenity, followed by a yelp. "I'll just have to impress you and your friends tomorrow. It was nice meeting you, Dannis."_

_The door slides open and I step into the little pod, letting it shoot up. It's not until I'm back on the 7__th__ floor that I collapse, shaking and crying so hard I'm almost laughing. Did I just _do_ that?_

* * *

><p>"Death is as easy as this in the Games, Mareen." She tries to pull her wrist loose and I take a firmer grasp on her hand. "You're barely taller than I am, have no idea how to handle weapons, and never had to survive on your own in the wild. You have one—one!—possible advantage, and that's attitude. I won my Games with it, faked being strong when I wanted to be sick, and if I have to make you hate me, beat you half to death, scream your ears off, whatever it takes to make you into this defiant bitch, I'll do it each and every time!" I release her wrist, shove her back into the wall before she can recover. "Your choice. You accept my leadership, or I force you into it."<p>

Kev's been quiet, staying out of the way, but now he walks up, puts a hand on my arm. "I have a better idea."

Both of our eyes swing to him, both of us furious, but he doesn't flinch. Never suspected the kid had this much guts.

"I don't think it was attitude that made it work, Livy. Not really. You were unpredictable. No one ever _bluffed_ the Careers, much less all the rest. But that's old now. If you just try to make Mareen and I do that, everybody will know what we're up to and we'll get killed off fast." He waits, expecting one of us to protest, but when we don't, he shrugs and keeps going.

"I think the only way we have a shot is if we make it very clear to everyone that we're not you. Make it seem like we hate you, in fact, and won't listen to a word you say—the opposite of what we did on the train."

Despite myself, he's caught my attention, and I can tell he has Mareen's too. He pauses again, watching to see if we get it.

"We play them." He says the words slowly, as if sounding them out. "We convince everyone we're on our own. And that means. . ."

"They'll underestimate us." Mareen smiles triumphantly, whether because this means she'll have permission to fight with me or because she genuinely likes the idea I don't know. "They might suspect the ruse, but even if they do, they still have to prepare for the chance that we're not bluffing. Anything's a possibility in their minds. Including a chance that we're genuinely weak."

"It's not much," Kev apologizes. Apologizes! The kid's seen through half of the Games' politics at a glance and he's sorry he can't do more. "But it might be enough for the Careers to not make us their first shots."

Somehow I find my voice.

"No."

Both of them turn to stare at me. Mareen opens her mouth hotly, but I keep going. "It's a good plan so far, but it's not going to be enough to take you farther than the Cornucopia, if that. It's like you said, Kev—the only reason I survived was because nobody knew what to think of me. If you two go in, no matter how weak you pretend to be, they're going to assume the worst."

"So what then?" Mareen demands. "We act like we're _you?_ Do you think they'll allow us to live if we pretend to be bullies and murderers and—"

"No. There's no _allowing_ anyone to live in the Hunger Games. The best you can do is convince them you're not worth the effort of killing at the moment, either because you're too weak to matter or because you're too strong to risk taking on."

"And how are we supposed to do that?"

I open my mouth to answer, only for nothing to come out. I stare at her for a few seconds, then look down and shrug, pretend that I don't care. "That's your problem. Like you said, distancing yourselves from me is a start. And we may as well start that now."

"Liv . . ."

I turn around, ignoring Kev's plea. I can't bring myself to admit that I have no idea how to save them—that not only did I put them in these Games, my old strategies have made the situation impossible for them to survive. I've never felt so helpless—not at the Cornucopia, not that night with Ames, not even when Dad died.

"Come on," I say, leading them towards the larger car. No hint of emotion breaks through my indifferent tone. "I need to introduce you to your other mentors."

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><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Yes, the chair trick actually works for anyone who's interested. Like Liv said, though, it's not a hard-and-fast rule. Some girls can't do it, some guys can. Just depends.

So, as those who have read _Unmasked_ may know, I am responsible for a hungry monster living in my basement. He demands that I either feed him Irish football victories or lots of reviews or else he'll go on a rampage and eat the innocent villagers. Since we managed to lose our first game in spectacular fashion, I'd ask that you pretty please either try out for the ND football team or leave a review!


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **I'm flat broke. Really, the only thing you'd get from me are massive student loans if you want to sue.

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><p>Chapter 4.<p>

_I don't know the other Tribute from District 7, but I can already see he's going to be the favorite. Arms as thick as my legs, legs thicker than my waist, and a mean look to his face. He'll have no trouble tearing through twelve year olds to win. What did Janus say his name was? Kronk? Crone? No . . . Kronos. That was it._

_I realize I'm standing in the doorway, staring, and mentally shake myself, enter the train's dining room. Janus and our district's four mentors are already standing around him and I realize that none of them are going to want to coach me. Why would they? Bren Nellon's win the year before last was unexpected glory, and here it looks like they've been handed another winner sooner than they could have dreamed._

_Unnoticed, I lean against the wall, trying to assess things. I don't want all of them. I just need one mentor, and I'm not sure who's most likely to agree. Martin? No, Kronos is like a tribute specially made for him, brute force and ruthlessness rolled together. I'll even bet he uses a giant axe too. Lewis? Too old—he won some of the first Games, and years of morphling addiction have taken their toll, even if he's clean now. I need a mentor who will look impressive. Sanderson? I consider him the most. He's wily, probably the smartest one at ambushes and surprise, and just over thirty. He might work. But I know the one I really want, and Kronos is _not_ going to be happy when I try to steal him, even if he wasn't going to take him in the first place._

_I can't show my fear. Bren Nellon isn't going to want anything to do with me, and if I act uncertain it'll just lower my chances. For a second I consider going for sexy and intriguing, trying to entice him with that, but flirting is Mareen's specialty, not mine—enough women have thrown themselves at him since his victory that he'd recognize a novice like me in a heartbeat. Instead I toss my hair and walk up behind him, trying not to think about how small I am compared to . . . all of them. I'm seventeen, but even sixty year old Lewis looks heavier than I am. I have to reach up to tap Nellon on the back of the should—_

_A blade flashes, my arm twists, and suddenly I'm unable to move. Nellon's standing over me, knife at my throat._

_Somehow I master my shock, acutely aware that not just he but everyone in the room is staring at me now. Can't show weakness. My arm's wrenched all wrong, trying to pull free from the shoulder, and trying to move only makes it hurt worse.__Nellon's eyebrows raise, a hint of amusement in his eyes._

A test, _I realize. _This is his way of testing me._ My eyes sharpen, glaring at him, daring him to twist the blade under my jaw. I don't know where I find the moisture, but I somehow hawk, spit on the hand holding my shoulder. "Get off."_

_I think I see a glimmer of respect in his face, but then I'm free and he's turning back to Kronos, the other mentors already forgetting me. No! I can't lose this chance!_

_One of my hands smacks flat on the table, the other seizes him by the shoulder, wrenches him to face me. He's big enough that I shouldn't be able to turn him, but for whatever reason he's decided to cooperate._

_"Can I talk with you?" I hiss. I don't wait for an answer, just drag him from the room._

_The minute the door slides shut behind us I stop, facing him. He folds his arms. "What do you want, Caldwell?"_

_"Stop the acting," I snap. No weakness. No weakness. "I see what you're doing. Trying to intimidate me. It won't work." Lie. I watched Nellon kill three Careers at one point with nothing more than a pair of knives. Of course he intimidates me. But I'd rather be intimidated than ignored_

_He doesn't say anything, just waits._

_"I want you to be my mentor," I admit in a rush. "There's no one assigned to me as the female tribute, so I'm asking you."_

_He had to see this coming. But he still pauses, watches me closely. "You're the surgeon's daughter, aren't you?"_

_I nod, still waiting for his answer. He seems to be weighing me with his eyes. "Can you do it?" he finally asks. "Kill? Fight? Betray? Survive?"_

_"Survive?" No. That's not part of the plan. But . . ."I'm going to do better, Nellon. I'm going to _win."

_"I see." I can tell that he doesn't. Good thing too—if he knew what I mean by 'win,' he'd laugh me right off the train.__"I don't know, Caldwell. You may have the will, but it takes a lot more than that in these Games. Do you have the strength, the cunning . . . the speed?"_

_Muscles tense, my arm flashes up, and I'm hissing in pain, Nellon's knife slashed into my forearm, bare inches from my face. Both of our eyes are wide; I wasn't expecting the attack, he clearly wasn't expecting the defense, poor and instinctive as it was. Slowly he nods, pulls the knife back. I watch him carefully as I lower my arm, not breaking eye contact. It stings too much to actually be serious. I hope._

_"You've got good reflexes," Nellon admits, "And obviously some spunk."_

_I want to protest, say that I've never felt so scared in my life as when that blade just passed in front of me. But something tells me to stay quiet. Slowly he nods._

_"Alright, girl. You want me to coach you? I'll meet you in ten minutes in the second dining room. We'll start going over knife fighting before dinner."_

_"What—now? On the train?"_

_"Is there a problem?"_

_Other than the fact that I'm going to train to kill people? "No. Nothing. Just surprised, that's all."_

_"Get used to it. The Hunger Games are here, Caldwell. If the rug's not being pulled out from under your feet it's because there's a boulder about to come crashing down on you."_

_"Livy."_

_"What?"_

_"I . . ." Suddenly I feel really stupid. Nellon's a trained and glorified killer. I was—am—an aspiring surgeon with a glimmer of a plan that mostly involves my own death. And we should be friends because. . . why exactly? "I prefer Livy. Caldwell's my dad."_

_He shrugs, walks away, and I feel even stupider. But as he's leaving the corridor, his voice comes back. "Call me Bren then. Seems fair."_

* * *

><p>My eyes look for him instinctively as I lead my siblings into the dining car. All the others are there too—Lewis, Sanderson, Martin, Janus—but it's Bren that I automatically head towards. Mareen hesitates, then takes a seat as far away from me as possible and Kev follows. We're already acting out the charade. At least that's what I tell myself.<p>

"My my my! I don't remember a reaping that was ever _that_ exciting!" Janus exclaims, fanning himself with one hand. "Your family is extraordinarily lucky, Liv."

"Yes. It sure feels that way." I say the words so flatly that even Janus looks taken aback for a second before brushing it off.

"Well, since you're such good friends with everyone here, why don't you introduce us to your charming brother and sister? It would—"

_"Fine."_

And suddenly I can't do it any more. The acting, the maddening game of make-believe that I somehow want to be here, introducing my siblings to the people who will turn them into monsters or corpses. I feel like I'm being pulled apart, the tension in me is snapping, lashing out at anyone stupid enough to come near it. "Mareen, Kev, this dulled saw blade is Janus. He'll make sure that your deaths provide maximum entertainment for the Capitol."

"Liv—"

I ignore Bren. "The piece of work to your right is Martin. His special talents include using axes to split open the skulls of innocent thirteen year old allies and—"

"_Liv._ That's enough. I'll introduce the others."

I've got to hand it to Bren. He doesn't miss a beat. "This mountain of muscle Liv was introducing you to is Martin. He's well known for strength and the mental toughness you'll need to win, but don't let his size fool you. He's _fast_. The elderly gentleman sitting next to him is our very first district winner, Lewis. . ."

He goes on. Martin, Lewis, Sanderson, himself, even Janus gets a remake. He plays up their strengths, make them—us—somehow seem halfway human again, and takes long enough on it that I can recover, start to restrain myself. What was I just thinking? If Janus's senseless comments set me off, what's going to happen at the Capitol where _everyone_ thinks that way? I've got to control myself. But now that the cameras are gone, my feelings are going haywire, the delayed shock finally hitting me. I'm swinging between fury and absolute despair like a pendulum.

Somehow I muster up the blank expression again. Mareen's listening to Bren, eyes narrowed in concentration, and Kev is mostly doing the same, but every minute or so his eyes flicker over to me. His look is somewhere between horror and worry and pity. Acting again? Or did what I said really affect him that badly? Is it really starting to sink in.

Dinner arrives, some sort of red soup with round chunks of meat bobbing up in it. I poke at it with my spoon and see that the meat is animal intestine, chopped and spiced so that it smells slightly like—

_A smell of copper and salt, red water pouring over the slick white surface, only I put my hand into it and realize that it's sticky and warm. Not water but_—

"Excuse me," I blurt, stumbling from the room.

I slam the door when I flee, but it never closes. I look up from where I'm hunched over, clammy, the shaking uncontrollable, and find Bren standing over me. I swallow.

"What the hell was that stunt, Caldwell?"

Caldwell. I really am in trouble. I want to feel bad, but all I can think about is my Cornucopia, about how Mareen and Kev will be in one like it. About the blood river. The endless slaughters and deception. Eviscerations, burnings, drownings, beheadings, they're all on the table and I've put them in there.

My stomach lurches and I try to turn away, but Bren misinterprets, thinks I'm trying to leave, and grabs my shoulder. He barely dodges the stream of vomit.

"S-S-Sorry. It's. . . the food. Looked like the. . . river. The one where Kronos—"

Before I realize, I'm slammed up against the wall, Bren glaring at me, the air whooshing from my sore belly in one gasp. _"Grow up. _You think these are_ their_ Games? That you can just wallow in guilt? You're going to be on display here every bit as much as they are! The audience is going to judge them by how well you handle this. You want to make up for putting them there? For being that stupid? _Keep them alive."_

My leg comes up, uses his hold on me to lever a foot straight into his chest. Bren falls back and I land on all fours like a cat, expecting him to take a swing at me, to draw a knife or—

He just grins, massaging his chest a bit. "There you go. Better now?"

How does he always make me feel like such an idiot? I just pulled the same trick on Mareen and somehow he still manipulated me, made me angry enough that I could focus again. The realization that I've been played does nothing to calm me down either.

"A little," I say, and to my surprise it's true. Anger, pain, anything is better than that sick despair.

"Then let's head back in. The reapings from the other districts should be on soon."

"Wouldn't want to miss prime entertainment like that," I mutter. Bren shoots me a look, worried that I'll slip into another bitter diatribe, but I give him a wry glance. I'm not going to be an all-out rebel, not while they have my siblings hostage, but I'm not going to take it quietly either. Rolling over and dying isn't in me.

They've already moved on to the second course by the time I come in, some sort of ultra-rich lamb stew mixed with plums and rice. Disgusting. But better than that red stuff. I somehow pull up a tight smile as they all look at me.

"Janus. Martin. Apologies."

Lewis raises his eyebrows at me. "Sit. And stop pretending you feel bad. You look like a bear with a toothache, not a repentant angel."

I obey, and Mareen turns back to Lewis, ignoring me. "So what were you saying?"

Lewis raises his eyebrows, leans back in his chair a little. "You're siblings. Remind them of that. Everyone's going to expect the two of you to work together, so you may as well rely on your alliance and build the rest of your strategy around that."

"And if we're the final two?" Kev asks softly. Lewis snorts.

"Won't happen. Odds are too slim."

"But if it does?"

"Then one of you makes a tough choice." Sanderson's voice is as low as Kev's, but hard and unforgiving. "We're not going to sugarcoat things for you, kid. So don't ask as questions you already know the answers to. Especially when they're ones you won't like."

Silence reigns around the table. I'm pushing the lamb stew around in my bowl, but at a hard look from Bren I begin swallowing the stuff. Mareen and Kev need to eat, put on as much weight as they can before the Games, and I guess that means I should too. Set a good example or whatever.

Janus breaks in just as the plates are being cleared. "Well! This is all going to be such an—"

Bren gives him a look like the one he just gave me and Janus clears his throat. "Let's take a look at the competition while we eat dessert, shall we?"

I manage to hold down one of the fancifully shaped pastry and whipped cream confections that are brought out while Janus flicks on a TV nearly the size of a wall. Mareen and Kev have to turn away from the table to watch, and I see my sister put her arm around him, almost unconscious of the protectiveness. I feel a hint of jealousy that I instantly smother. I can't take her place, however much I want to.

Districts 1, 2, and 4 all have their volunteers as usual. I grimace as the District 2 boy comes up, images of Dannis flashing through my head despite the fact that this boy looks nothing like him. No doubt District 2 is going to make a special effort to go for my siblings after what happened there. Three, Five, and Six are nothing too special. The commentators are all muttering when our district's turn comes up and my siblings are shown, but despite their obvious shock, Mareen and Kev carry themselves well. The camera crews even take an extra minute to show them getting on the train, something they didn't show with anyone but the Careers so far.

District 8 has a tall, black haired girl who has to be eighteen. She's obviously athletic, but the expression on her face is utter bewilderment. She shouldn't be too much of a threat, although the boy from Nine, only fifteen but with sizable bulk, might very well be. Ten's girl looks young, dreamy almost, but even though she's supposedly thirteen, she's easily as tall as Mareen. I hope she won't be a problem. Not after my own experience with 10. Surprisingly, 12 looks like it might provide the only other real competition. The boy is also eighteen, which means he's been cleared to work in the mines and obviously does. His hands are gray from the grit rubbed into them and his upper body is built. Aside from the Careers, I think he might be the one to worry about the most.

The announcers make the appropriate chatter about the sensational Games these are going to be, but when they start chatting about Mareen and Kev, dragging in my old performances, I switch off the TV.

"Mareen, Kev," Bren says quietly—why is he being nice to _them_?—"There are still a couple of hours left before the two of you need to go to bed. I suggest you practice with somebody on a weapon or strategy for that time, preferably with the person you want for your mentor. Normally that would be Liv for you, Mareen, but given the circumstances. . ."

Right. I can't exactly mentor her if we hate each other, now can I? Bren clears his throat and keeps going. "Martin can go over axes, I can teach you knives, Lewis knows poisons, and Sanderson will teach you a bit about archery and snares. Whichever you'd prefer."

They both look at each other, as if trying to gauge what the other wants, then Mareen turns to Bren and shrugs. "Knives sound useful."

He leads her from the car and Kev turns to Sanderson, a bit of a grin pulling at his lips. "Where can we practice archery on the _train?"_

"You'd be surprised, kid. Come on."

I wait in the car with Martin, Lewis, and Janus for about half an hour, ignoring Janus and Lewis's attempts to drag me into their conversation. When it becomes clear that neither of my siblings are going to be coming back to the car for a while, I leave and hunt down my room, change into a silky nightgown—apparently mentors are given just as many luxuries as tributes—and lay down on the bed, trying to relax.

I'm only there for about thirty seconds when the images surface, old nightmares and new ones hybridized like my own personal muttation. I've been fighting them all day, but I knew they were coming—I've seen them every day since I left the arena, after all. May as well get them over with here where no cameras will judge me for it. I steel myself and shut my eyes.

_Kronos is charging after me, only suddenly I'm Mareen, and I can't run fast enough, I slip on the ice and he's standing over me, laughing, swings a giant axe straight into my neck._

_I'm back at the Cornucopia, only Kev is the kid from Six, and I'm too late to save him, watch as his throat is slit like an animal's, splashes over my face._

_Severed limbs and heads are all collected in one large pile, all belonging to people I know—Mareen, Kev, Bren, Dad, Ames, Kronos, Dannis. . ._

_There's a screaming child being chased by a monster with white skin and red-brown hair, but then I realize it's me. I'm the monster and I'm chasing down a kid; I spin her around and realize it's my sister but it's too late, my knife is already inside her and she's coughing blood into my stinging eyes. I don't know if it's the blood or tears that are running down my face._

_Dannis is in that cave and I smell the gangrene, pull out my scalpel—_

I turn over, bite on one of the pillows to muffle my scream, shout and shriek until my throat goes raw and I think I might be sick again. I don't bother taking out my improvised gag when I finish. It will only be a few minutes until more come.

Tonight's going to be a long one.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Really, Fighting Irish? _Really?_ Honestly, I'm going to need therapy after these football games. 0-2, what a way to start the season...

Anyhow, thank you so much to each and every one of you who's read/alerted/favorited and, especially, reviewed! Please, whatever you think, let me know**_—_**the good, the bad, the ugly, whatever. That monster in my basement is starving right about now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** You're only allowed to sue me if I get to meet Suzanne Collins at the trial. Or the full cast for the movie, either one. Do both and I'll agree to plead guilty.

* * *

><p>Chapter 5.<p>

I wake up early, sunlight lancing straight through the window into my eyes. The train's still, and all around I can see glittering buildings and freakish people stopping and gawking at the train. I irritably tap the window and the glass darkens, giving me some privacy. Handy, that.

Obviously they decided to let us sleep instead of waking everyone up when we arrived last night. Maybe it was supposed to be a friendly gesture, but I can't help but resent it. Those imaginings were nothing to the nightmares that followed.

There's a whole collection of clothes, but I pull the outfit from yesterday back on instead. Petronius might be an arrogant freak, but he's one that knows how to make a good show; these clothes almost scream danger and every sign of strength I display will help my siblings.

The corridors are deserted, and I'm not sure if it's because everyone's already left for the training building or if they're still asleep. I decide to go back to the dining car and see Kev slurping down some sort of fruit and yogurt mixture that's a light orange color from the juice. Sanderson and Bren are both there, also eating, so all he does is raise his eyebrows at me before turning back to his food.

"Morning," I say, taking a seat next to Sanderson. I'm not very hungry—I got sick again at some point last night and my stomach's still sore—and I know that if I sit next to Bren he'll glare at me until I start eating. "Mareen up yet?"

"Janus just went to get her." Bren raises his eyebrows as I push away the food, but I ignore him. I have more important things to worry about than how much or how little I eat. "I left the knives with her, and I'm hoping that she's learned enough by now to—"

A screech sounds down the corridor and Bren throws open the door. The four of us gather around and see Janus collapsed against the wall, one hand held against his heart, head flung back in over-dramatic panic.

Bren bursts out laughing as he sees Mareen standing on the other side of the hall, knife in hand, curly hair even more disheveled than usual. Kev and even Sanderson join in when Janus tries to get up and trips, lands back on the floor with a squeak. His fright is quickly disappearing into wounded pride, but the sight of the knife seems to keep him from getting angry like he would normally.

"I think she enjoys her beauty sleep a little _too_ much," Kev stage-whispers to Sanderson. It's lame, but the two of them start laughing again. Mareen turns to them, flourishes the knife, and gives a little bow. She shoots Janus a dangerous look when he tries to get up again, then spins back into her room and slams the door.

I want to comment, laugh along with the rest of them, but with the uncaring act still going on, I decide it's a better idea to head back into the dining car and change the subject. "Did you call Petronius?" I ask Bren as we return to the food.

"He was already measuring out costumes for Kev when I called." Bren rolls his eyes. "_And_ said he had some good clothes for you too. I don't know how he does it."

Kev makes a face. "Clothes? We're supposed to worry about _clothes?"_

Sometimes I forget that, for all his maturity, he's still a thirteen year old boy.

"Believe it, Kev," I tell him. "A good stylist can get you more sponsors than you'd think. You remember the girl Tribute from Four? The one whose stylist turned her into a mermaid six years ago?"

He shakes his head.

"Well, she was surprisingly weak for a Career, and her training scores showed it, but they played her up so that she—"

"Sure, Liv, whatever." Kev rolls his eyes and scrapes his bowl clean, starts eating a roll with quick, big bites. Right. We're supposed to be mad at each other. But how am I supposed to give them advice if they can't listen to anything I say?

Mareen shows up for breakfast a few minutes later, but she barely has time to shovel down a couple of rolls before a group of Capitol attendants whisk her and Kev away to prepare her for the chariot rides tonight. I try to head out with them, then remember that mentors aren't there for this stage. They're just going to have to go with Petronius and hope that it all works out.

I turn to Bren, attempt to force a smile. "Now what?"

"It's too early for there to be sponsors, and the interviews don't start until tomorrow. Janus is working on sponsors already, but mentors wait until slightly later for that. So we have the rest of the day off unless they have to call us in for some sort of emergency with the stylists or something. "

"Oh wouldn't _that_ be interesting. Two years in a row? Might get us more publicity at least."

"Nah. Petronius is crazy, but he's an amazing stylist. We're just going to have to trust him to do a good job here."

"I guess."

But when Bren and I go up to seventh floor and an Avox leaves me alone in my room, I can't stop thinking about my siblings, about what they might be doing now and what Petronius is planning. Trust. It doesn't come easy for me anymore. Not when it's my siblings' lives at stake.

I don't really notice the time passing as I wait in the room. I think I sleep at one point. At another, I rouse enough to take a shower, manage to forget about everything but the hot water and steam and the strange scents of the frothy soap that the shower jets out.

When I get out there's someone else standing in the room. Bare arms, tattooed up and down with glowing symbols—

"Arius?"

"Livy!" He turns, opens his arms wide as if expecting a hug. I just tighten the towel around myself but he doesn't seem phased. "Petronius sent me; I brought your clothes for the chariot ride."

I look at my oversized bed and see more black and red clothes. I swallow just a bit. "Thanks. I'll take it from here."

"No, no, no!" He looks positively horrified, his ridiculous Capitol accent edging up even higher at the idea. "I'm supposed to help you!"

"That's kind of you Arius, but you're already short staffed as it is dealing with two tributes and I think I can figure out how to put on. . ." Alright, so I don't like being naked around these people. I know. I've assisted in enough surgeries that I shouldn't care about nudity. But somehow it's different when it's you. And when the people dressing you are. . . them.

"We're right on schedule!" Arius brandishes a long, flowing gown at me. "Now get dressed."

I sigh, but obey. I got away with revolting against my stylists once, but I seriously doubt Petronius will let that happen with him.

* * *

><p><em>"Absolutely not!"<em>

_"But it's perfect for you!" my stylist twitters, hands fluttering over me. She's nearly as short as I am, and twice as wide. "Everyone in District 7 dresses as trees, but they've never done woodland _creatures_ before! And with your face, you would look positively _angelic_ as a rabbit!"_

Has this woman ever _seen _the Games? _I wonder. Part of me wants to give in, not start a fight, but I've already decided that I won't be a victim. And if I'm seen as weak here, if my costume's pathetic, the Careers won't give me a chance. I _need_ to take a stand. I give the costume a contemptuous glance. "I wouldn't wear that if you had a gun to my head."_

_My stylist's eyes go serious, grim. "You will wear it if I have to call the Avoxes to stuff you inside."_

_I'm supposed to be strong. Stubborn. I guess that means I can act like a diva, especially for something like this. I march to the table the costume is sitting on, wedge my fingers underneath the fine grained wood and upend the whole thing, send the costume sliding to the floor. Pots of face paint and make up slide fall over it, smash and splash across the whole thing in a riot of colors._

_"You little bitch!"_

_The stylist walks up to me, tries to slap me, and I shove her right back, send her toppling to the ground. I feel bad about killing kids, but this woman's a bully. I refuse to be the victim. No weakness._

_"That was your costume!" she squeals up at me, tearing up, face so red and round she looks like an apple. "And now what are you going to do? I ought to dress you as a—"_

_"What's going on?"_

_My head jerks up to see Bren standing in the doorway. As usual, his face is closed off and emotionless. I don't have to fake my glower._

_"I will go through the chariot rides absolutely naked before I let this—this creature dress me up like her doll!"_

_"Well that's what you're going to do then!" she yelps up at me. "Because I am _through_ with this degradation! You're treating me like I'm not even _human!_"_

_Before I can comment on the irony of that, she's stormed out of the room, taking her troupe of freak assistants with her. Bren folds his arms and frowns at me. "That went well, didn't it?"_

_I sigh, my bluster fading as quickly as the woman left the room. "Sorry."_

_"It's not a complete disaster. Looking at the costume, I don't think you had much choice. And we can spin things to our advantage by making you seem stubborn and strong with these antics. If you're still stuck on your crazy idea of joining with the Careers, that is."_

_I nod. "But what now? I really don't want to go in the nude—and that wouldn't do anything for my strategy either."_

_"I think we should leave that to the kids from District 12." Bren grimaces. "Give me fifteen minutes and I'll see what I can do."_

_He leaves me alone in the cold room. I shiver a bit, wrap my thin robe more tightly around me. Maybe it's only fifteen minutes, but it sure feels like hours while I wait, watch the spilled paints slowly start dry around the edges and try not to think of, well, anything. My strategy, Bren, my family, the chariot rides. . . everything my mind lands on seems like an issue that could set me off crying and today's already gone badly enough._

_"Livy?"_

_My head jerks up. Bren's there, and standing next to him is what has to be the strangest person I've ever seen, even in the Capitol. Brilliant amber irises—no whites, just iris and pupil—and what looks like dry skin, but as I look closer I realize that it's been scaled and pebbled. Like a bird's. He (I think it's a he) is wearing brilliant turquoise robes that clash horribly with his stiff scarlet and gold hair._

_The man is standing still, studying me as well, and suddenly his hair. . . rises. . . on his head, forms a crest. Not hair. Feathers. Scarlet and gold _feathers.

_I cast Bren a puzzled look, but before he can respond bird-man exclaims, "But of course!" He turns away from me to another man, one with glowing tattoos spiraling all over his bare arms. "Gold cloth. As much as you can get. Scissors. Wire. Batteries. Measuring tapes. Make up. Hair dye." His assistant doesn't hesitate, just turns and runs as if being chased by fire._

_"Dye?" It's not until Bren snorts that I realize I squeaked the word. Bird-man turns and smiles at me, extends one claw-like hand. I stare at it. Even his fingernails have been transformed into black talons. I look away from him to my mentor. "Bren. . ."_

_"Livy, there was exactly one stylist willing to take you on such short notice. Take it or leave it."_

_The stylist beams at me. "What can I say? Retirement was boring! And the idea for _your_ costume has been just begging me to put it on display for _years_ now. Now, I'm Petronius. Your name?"_

_I shoot Bren another worried look, but at his nod I swallow and gingerly put my hand in. . . Petronius's. "I'm Livy."_

_"Livy? No, no, no, no! That name will never do."_

_I flush. "What's wrong with my name?"_

_"It's like one we'd have here in the Capitol!" Petronius's assistant runs up to him and hands him a measuring tape. "Ah, thank you Arius. Now don't forget the dye. This child was made for gorgeous hair." Arius runs out and Petronius turns back to me. "Well, girl? Stand up, take off that robe! I've only got four hours, no time to be bashful."_

_Bren is grinning fit to burst, and I think my face is about to burn clean off my skull. At a pleading glance from me he turns around, but things aren't nearly that easy with Petronius. He watches me intensely, like the hawks he's modeled himself after, to the point that I feel like a mouse getting it's skin stripped off as I lose my remaining clothes. Goosebumps pop up all over my skin, a strange counterpoint to the heat in my cheeks. I swallow, wish I could sink into the floor, as he starts to measure._

_"So why is a Capitol name bad?" I ask, more to take my mind off things than anything else._

_"It just doesn't. . . stand out." Petronius hums a bit, starts to jot down notes. "Names from the Districts are supposed to be _interesting._ Back already, Arius?"_

Just let me die here,_ I think as the assistant trots back in, looks me up and down, and winks. _Forget the Games. I'll happily die the most tortuous death they can come up with if it means I can skip this.

_"Well, that should be about it!" Petronius chirps several minutes later. "Put your robe back on. And your mentor can turn around now. Honestly, you in the districts are just so quaint with your standards!"_

_I nearly dive into my clothes and Petronius laughs, starts pouring reddish colored liquids into a basin. The hair dye? Ugh. _

_"And now for the scissors! Oh, you're not going to know yourself when I finish with you!" He says it like I'm supposed to be jumping for joy. I back against the wall, my long hair behind me._

_Petronius raises his eyebrows. "Or you can back out and really go in the nude for your chariot ride. It's all the same to me, my darling Tribute."_

_I look around, desperate for some sort of ally, but Arius is holding the basin and Bren just shrugs at me. He'll let me choose, but clearly he doesn't plan on bailing me out again. I grit my teeth and march to the chair._

_Petronius is mercifully quiet while he snips, weight disappearing from my head surprisingly fast. I feel the shears graze my scalp and make myself stay still. Just how short is he making this cut?_

_"Liv." Petronius announces after he's finally brushed the last of the strands from my shoulders and motions Arius to come over with the basin. I shake my head a bit while he does, trying to adjust to its new weightlessness until he makes me stay still and coats my hairline with some clear sort of gel. Then he pulls out what looks like a large paint brush and starts swishing it through the dye._

_"Live? What are you talking about?" I ask, stalling, eyeing the brush like I would a feral animal. Maybe if I can keep him talking long enough, the dye will dry and I won't have to do this._

_Right. And maybe I'll close my eyes and be back in District 7._

_"You're name should be Liv, not Livy. Because that's what you're going to do. With my costumes. . ." he grins, shows every one of his teeth doing it, "and your stubbornness, you're going to live."_

_Live. Liv. I turn the name over in my head and decide that, even if it's not true, I like it. Petronius holds the brush up, gives me a questioning look, and before I can protest, talk myself out of it, fight back, I look him straight in the eye._

"_Do it."_

* * *

><p>I join Bren and the other mentors in our special box, ignoring the curious glances from Capitol dwellers just outside the window. Bren looks me up and down, nods. "You look fantastic."<p>

"Blame Petronius." The clothes aren't that fancy, just a plain black dress with reddish gauze folded and flowing around it, but I still move carefully. I'm not used to dresses. With the focus not on Bren, _he's_ lucky enough to just get away with a plain suit. "How do Mareen and Kev look?"

"Completely different from you. Petronius decided to play up your argument and make them separate from you instead of similar."

I nod and give Bren a sidelong look, trying to gauge him. Does he know? Can he tell that the argument's a fake and is just playing along to help us out? Or have we genuinely fooled him too? Even though I think I know him better than anyone else does, I honestly can't tell.

"Here they come!" Lewis says, sitting up straight in his seat, staring at a large TV screen. Outside our box, the crowd lets out a roar as the tributes start to appear. District 1, glittering and glitzy as ever. Two, turned to creatures of pure gold for their mining industry. Three, so draped with wires the cameras can't even see their faces. Four, a pair of frogs. Frogs? Seriously? Heads are going to roll for that one; the girl in particular doesn't look happy. Five and Six, nothing too special there. Seven—

The crowd lets out a roar and I feel a giddy rush of blood in my head. Petronius did it again.

* * *

><p><em>Kronos is a woodsman, carrying some larger than life axe, crowding up more than his half of the chariot. I'm not even up there yet. Petronius and Arius are still bustling around me, adding last touches to the costume. I swallow.<em>

_"None of that, now!" Petronius orders. "No fear! You're a deadly creature, little Liv, and don't let them tell you any differently."_

_I nod, rearrange my face into what I hope is a determined look. "Kronos isn't going to move for me."_

_"Sting him," Arius suggests._

_"Oh, right, like that'll work."_

_"Hold still!" Petronius orders. "Stand back Arius. A-and here. . . we. . . go."_

_There's a tiny buzz and I feel my skin tingle. I rub my gloved hand along the surface of the costume and hear a slight crackle, like static. "What. . ."_

_Petronius grins. "You really are a tracker jacker now! Just don't let Kronos get too close. Oh, and don't rub your bare face against the costume. Or take off your gloves and touch it. That might not end well." Before I can ask what he means, he's pecked me on the cheek and run off, Arius in tow._

_To my slight surprise, Kronos moves over when I climb onto my side of the chariot, gives me a sidelong look that's almost wary. I feel ridiculous. The too-shiny gold of the tracker jacker costume Petronius made engulfs everything except my head, and my face is so made up, my hair so altered with its red, short spikes, that I have a feeling I'm unrecognizable. Petronius says I'm deadly, but I feel like a little girl who's been caught playing dress up in her mom's best clothes._

_The chariot moves forward. Night's fallen, but the crowds surrounding us are lit up and I see my costume reflect back, almost glowing it's so shiny. Adrenaline fills me suddenly, makes me more aware of everything, pushes my fear to the back of my mind for once. They're cheering. I don't look half bad next to the other contestants. I look. . . I catch a glimpse of myself on the huge TVs. I look older. Angles are showing in my face that weren't there before._

_I look deadly._

_I make myself smirk, wave to the crowd. Kronos is going for brutal, pumping his axe up and down in the air, roaring like an animal. The crowd's cheering for him more than me, but I'm still getting attention. Maybe my crazy plan has a chance after all._

_Kronos is shouting so much he sounds deranged, nearly falls out of the chariot trying to show off his muscular bulk, and the crowd's encouraging him. They're shouting at him, egging him on, and the whole contraption's shaking like a baby's rattle. I try to scoot over, give him more room, but he's crowding me, and suddenly his elbow comes crashing down on my shoulder._

Crrr-rrack!

_Next thing I know, my partner is hunched over the side of the chariot, gasping, holding his elbow. The crowd's screaming louder than ever, and I turn to the TVs, catch them re-playing what just happened. Kronos's elbow lands, and white electricity leaps out of the cloth, almost like a…_

_Sting him. Got it._

* * *

><p>Leaves. Leaves are whipping around them, over them, behind them, somehow flying up from beneath their feet to surround them, then tumbling back down so that they never leave the chariot. Orange and red and gold, blurring together, turning the chariot's passengers to little more than shadows. The torrent slows, lowers, and I can see Mareen and Kev. Their faces are fresh and excited as they wave to the crowds, looking almost as if they're flying with the way their hair is blown behind them. Their costumes are made from streamers of fluttering red and orange material cut to look as if they, too, are made of leaves.<p>

I find myself smiling for the first time in who-knows-how-long. Janus, Martin, Lewis, Sanderson, and even Bren are cheering like crazy every time the camera zooms in on them and I hear the crowd give a little extra roar every time it does.

_Maybe one of them can make it through after all._

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Alright, Fighting Irish, we're getting there! Beating Michigan State was definitely an improvement. Now if we can just keep it up...

Free nerd points to anyone who can tell me why 'Livy' sounds like a Capitol name! Honestly, I'll be shocked if you can, but I'm interested to see who else is a Latin geek.

Oh, by the way, I've had my own personal cast listings for Liv, Mareen, Kev, and Bren up on my profile page for awhile now if anyone's interested. Feel free to imagine them any way you like, of course, but those are the actors and actresses_ I_ picture in those roles when I'm writing.

Anyways, thanks a bunch, as always, to you lovely readers and reviewers! I'm always thrilled (not to mention flattered) to watch that review count tick up**, **so if you feel like making my day- or want to point out a weakness that needs revising- please go right ahead.**  
><strong>


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: **Can't think of anything witty. See Chapter 1.**  
><strong>

Credit, as always, to my amazing beta, EStrunk.**  
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* * *

><p>Chapter 6.<p>

"So how did it go?" I ask the minute they're off the elevator. Kev gives me a strange look and Mareen just glares at me and shrugs.

"We're training how to kill twenty odd kids that are in the same room as us, Liv. How do you _think_ it went?"

I brush off her sarcasm, too worried to even bother keeping my cool, indifferent mask up. "Look, I know we're supposed to be fighting, but I can help you here if you let me. Just tell me, what—"

"I'm going to go shower now," Mareen says loudly, glaring at me. I can't tell if she's still acting, faking our argument, or if she really does hate me. Probably the latter. She stalks off without another word.

I sigh and turn to Kev. "How were things, really?"

He looks around the room for anyone listening, then grimaces at me. "Not amazing but not too bad either. We don't have any real fighting skills, and it shows, but Mareen and I know enough on other survival and things that I think we'll have a chance if we make it through the Cornucopia. It's a big 'if' though."

"I've been meaning to talk to you about that," I say quickly. "Your strategy. The more I consider it, the less I think being different from me is going to be enough for you two; I mean, it could just as easily be taken as defiance and spunk instead of the stupidity and squeamishness you're trying to show. You need some sort of aggressive strategy, I think. Now, I know you're not going to like it, but I had an idea that would—"

"We agree."

"What?"

"I said that Mareen and I agree." Kev shrugs. "Going invisible just isn't going to work, especially after what Petronius did with us last night. It was clear from how we were treated in the training today that no one's going to believe we're as weak as we are. Don't worry though. Mareen's got it figured out."

_"Mareen?"_ I'm not faking my shock. Even if we're calling it an 'act,' I thought my sister was spending all her time hating me and wanting out; if anyone was going to come up with the plan to save them, I thought it would be Kev. "How?"

Kev hesitates, opens his mouth to tell me, and then Bren walks around the corner. Instantly my brother paints a scowl on his face and turns away. Bren watches him go with his eyebrows raised.

"What was that all about?"

I sigh, putting my fingers to my temples. I don't have to fake the stress on my face. This act is turning out to be more counter-productive than anything. And I don't even know if it _is_ an act any more. "They're planning something. Neither of them will tell me what."

He smiles a bit at me. "That's sort of the whole plan isn't it?"

I hate it when he smiles; it usually means he's about to do something particularly annoying. "Either tell me what you mean or go away. I've got enough on my plate right now without dealing with overly complex men."

That only makes his grin broaden, but the look he gives me is serious. "The argument. Making sure everyone knows they have a different strategy than yours was. What's the point of all that if they're not actually going to have their own plan?"

Silence.

I groan and lean my head back against the wall, shut my eyes tight. "Does everyone here know it's an act? Janus? Sanderson?" A particularly horrible thought hits me before he can answer. "Will the people in the Capitol be able to tell?"

"I doubt it. Not the regular citizens, at least. The Gamemakers have probably figured it out though."

"How?"

"The surveillance."

"What?"

"Liv. . ." Bren looks at me like I'm crazy. "You've never realized they probably keep us bugged? What, did you think they just let us go gallivanting off doing whatever we feel like, no monitors? You know, for a victor, you really don't have the greatest sense of self-preservation."

"I. . ." Suddenly I feel stupid and incredibly panicked. What exactly have I been saying lately? Things against the Capitol? Catiline? Snow? Things that they might _think_ are against them? What if I've made things even worse for my siblings in the arena? I just don't remember. I make myself breathe, but along with the fear, there's a choking anger rising in my throat.

"HEY YOU!" I shout at the ceiling, "If you're listening up there, got any pain meds for the headache you've given me? Maybe a masseuse you want to send over? I could use one right about now!"

"No time for that!" Bren grabs my elbow and pulls me with him towards the elevator. "We've got somewhere to be."

"What? Where?"

"Interviews. With the mentors. Officially I'm Mareen's and Sanderson is working with Kev, but they asked for you too because. . . well, you know why."

"Right," I say, following Bren into the elevator. "But I don't remember any press conference being shown with the mentors before the Games."

"Interviews, Liv. It's not the same thing. And these aren't on public television. The focus for those is supposed to be the tributes. But potential sponsors have the opportunity to watch a short private interview between us and Caesar where we try to talk up our district."

"Caesar?" I like him, for a Capitol pawn. He's fairly new to the Games, only started the year Bren won actually, but he's got talent and charisma. Maybe things won't be quite so horrible. "What's my angle?"

"Exactly what you've been playing so far," Bren says. "You don't like what your siblings are doing. But you're going to have to pretend to be covering that up and supporting them. Can you manage that?"

"A bit of warning might have helped," I mutter. I'm a good actress, I've always known that, but pulling something as complex as this off. . .

"I just found out you were in five minutes ago. But you'll be fine. You do best when you're unsure of yourself." The elevator lands before I can protest, and an avox leads Bren and I into a room set up to look like an odd mesh of Capitol and District 7. I know we're still inside the glass and concrete of the Tribute building, but the walls are made of logs and the floor is wooden planks, just like back home. There's even a fireplace with a hearth of river stones, although the fire is too steady and there's no smell of smoke; the thing is obviously synthetic. The room is also much larger than anybody back home would have, even in the Victor's Village, and instead of the plain wooden furniture I'm used to, there's fancy carved stuff everywhere covered with garishly bright cushions. Still, it's close enough to home that I'm almost surprised at all the cameras.

Sanderson's already there, long legs stretched out on the table in front of the plush couch he's sitting on, and Bren takes a seat next to him. I hesitate, but I'm still mad at Bren for not warning me about this and he _did_ tell me to act like I'm not quite part of the group. I sit at a straight-backed chair near them instead of the other open couch seat. None of us speak.

After perhaps five minutes, Caesar walks in. Bren and Sanderson both stand, and after a second of hesitation, I do the same. He's dyed his hair and lips a muddy greenish brown this time, and the effect of this with his white face is ghastly. But at least he's smiling as he shakes hands all around. "Sanderson! An honor, truly an honor to finally meet you. And Nellon, it's always a pleasure to see you again. I must say, you _are_ a popular mentor in your district. Every year now since your victory, this must be some sort of record. And Liv. . ."

He watches me closely for a few minutes, and his expression softens just slightly. "I can't imagine how. . . nerve wracking these Games must be for you."

"Thank you," I mutter. For some reason my throat feels uncomfortably tight, like I'm choking again, and I can't quite figure out why. Except that. . . in his own way, Caesar just offered me sympathy. No one else, not even Bren, has done that for me.

"Well then!" He brightens, motions to the cameras to get ready. "Shall we begin?"

We resettle into our seats, Caesar sitting across from us, and I make myself focus. No, Bren hasn't offered me sympathy, but that's because he knows I don't deserve it. I put my siblings in there, and the only thing I can do now is give everything I have to make sure this interview makes them seem as strong as possible.

Luckily for me, Caesar talks mostly with Bren and Sanderson, going over Mareen and Kev, asking for evaluations, opinions on their chances. It's disturbing to hear my siblings analyzed like this, and of course we all know that they're going to say the kids are strong, but both of them show a surprising level of eloquence. Bren's rendition of Mareen attacking Janus has everyone in the room, including the cameramen and myself, cracking up.

Finally Caesar turns to me.

"So, Liv, I know that the Games are supposed to be about this year's tributes, but I have to admit that half of the excitement coming out of District 7 has been watching _you_. Are you proud of how your siblings have been doing so far?"

_We're fighting. We're fighting, and I think they're weak. Make that obvious without making it seem like I'm being obvious. _I make myself shrug. "It doesn't matter whether I'm proud of them or not, Caesar." I give him a grim smile. "What matters is how well they perform. And I think they will speak for themselves on that."

"Oh, I'm sure they will," Caesar agrees affably. "Why, their costumes alone on the chariots. . . remarkable, quite remarkable. And I'm sure that if they've inherited anything like your genes, they'll be some of the most serious contenders these Games. Would you say that they are similar to you?"

"It's hard to say. . ." I dodge. "They're both quite smart. Kev, especially, is much more cunning than I ever would have thought."

"And Mareen?" Caesar prompts. I take a deep breath, try to think through what she's been doing, what Kev hinted about her planning things.

"Mareen is also talented. . . but quite different from me. I suspect that whatever she does, it will be something that none of us expect."

Caesar raises his eyebrows, obviously taken aback by my implied admission that even I don't really know what game my sister is playing. He recovers quickly though. "Well, of course we can't go into the plain strategies here, but if there is one thing you would recommend viewers watch out for, one thing that will cue us in to a strong tribute, what would you say is the most important?"

"Allies," I say without thinking. The admission is so instinctive it's actually the pure truth.

* * *

><p><em>It's too bright up here; the lights are blinding me to everything past the stage. I make myself look at my hands, focus on keeping my face closed off. After three days of pretending to be a monster bent on killing other kids, it's not difficult to keep a little thing like nervousness from showing. If I don't look up.<em>

_The crowd starts cheering suddenly, and I know Caesar's reached the stage. He's beaming at the audience, waving his hand, making a few corny jokes. I can feel my heart starting to race. Come on, Livy. You can do this._

_He works his way through the Careers, all of them bringing their usual strength and charisma that the audience loves. Dannis is light, charming, and friendly. The District Four girl, the one the other Careers have kicked out, acts as if she wanted all along to be independent. I might almost have bought it if I didn't know the truth. Both from Five and then the girl from Six don't leave any real impression. Six's boy, a petrified fourteen year old that even Caesar can't make seem strong, is already back to his seat before I realize that it's my turn._

_I glide toward Caesar, and as I pass the lights my eyes catch on the TV screen. I'd worried that Petronius's more subtle design wouldn't show, but looking at myself I see that that's not the case. The bright material glitters like scales, the orange diamond patterns form perfectly on my back and the belly is the color of red wine. . . or blood. The train somehow twists behind me as I walk, like a snake's tail._

_I've seen several people bitten by bloodmouths and it's not pretty; the snakelike mutts infest some of the trees in our district and hunt by dropping down on their prey from the upper branches. Green in the spring, red and orange in the fall, you never see them coming until it's too late. The venom takes about five minutes to kill, if you're lucky. Convulsions. The whole reason that they're called bloodmouths is because those get so bad that about half the victims bite out their own tongue._

_I shake my head, trying to toss my hair, but then remember I don't have that any more. I smirk instead as I let one arm slither out to shake Caesar's hand. What's the worst that can happen? I die? I'm already planning on that._

_"So, Liv, I have to admit everyone at the Capitol's been so curious about you. A ten in training? What sort of secrets can a little girl like you be hiding that you managed to get that?"_

_I give him an enigmatic smile. "If I told you that, Caesar, they wouldn't be secrets now would they?"_

_He laughs harder than the performance deserves, and I arch an eyebrow, trying my best to look mysterious. I feel ridiculous, but after the eye make-up Petronius lathered on me, I know it works. Caesar, thank heaven, catches on at once._

_"I thought at first, seeing you getting on the train, that you were too small and delicate to be dangerous, but looking at you now I know that's not true. Obviously you thrive on secrecy, but is there anything about yourself that you can give the audience?"_

_"Well. . ."_

_"Come on, Liv," Caesar pleads. He turns to the crowd, invisible behind the bright lights. "We all want to hear more don't we?"_

_There's a lot of cheering and shouting. Someone starts a chant, and it catches on, spreads across the crowd until the whole square seems to be shouting my name. Good thing it's just one syllable—I don't think these people could handle more._

_"Alright, alright!" I shout, pretending to give in._

_"You all think you know how this will play out." My voice is quiet, and the audience immediately hushes to listen. It was a trick I saw another tribute pull a few years ago. "You have your bets and your sponsorships already planned, and the Gamemakers have already decided who lives and dies. You think you're in control. I'm not going to play like that. I'm not going to do what's expected, break and give in like the delicate little girl you all think I am. These aren't your Games anymore. They're _mine._ I'm not just going to win. I'm going to re-write the rules."_

_The bell buzzes and I glide back to my seat, never even glancing at Caesar. Behind me, I can hear the crowd roar and I have to swallow. Every word of it was true, and I have no doubt I'll die in the arena for it eventually, but right now they love the arrogant, deadly little snake. I just need certain other people to fall for it too._

_Kronos goes up, and he does a decent job of keeping the audience's attention, but just like in the chariots or training scores I've outshone him and he knows it—just the way his fists clench as he walks back to his seat makes my hair stand on end. I was already on the top of his kill list, but now it's going to be truly amazing if he doesn't try to slaughter me in the first bloodbath, maybe even if it gets him killed too. I _need_ my plan to work, or I won't make it through the first ten minutes._

_The rest of the contestants pass in a blur. Everyone from Districts 9 through 12 is fifteen or younger, most of them rather defenseless from what I can tell. These Games are going to be horribly brutal. As if they weren't already._

_Finally, Caesar finishes with the boy from District 12, the cameras turn off, and we all slowly return to our building. I have a feeling most of us won't sleep tonight—after all, we go into the arena tomorrow._

_"Caldwell! Hey, Caldwell!"_

_I spin around. "Dannis?" Excitement starts to blossom in my chest, but I keep my voice nonchalant, arrogant. They won't take me if I seem too eager, too desperate. "Impressive enough?"_

_He shakes his head at me, grinning. At first I think he's saying 'no,' but a second later I figure out that he's just showing admiration. "I don't know what you can do Caldwell, but after that training score and tonight, I sure want to be on your side when you do it. Do you want in with us Careers?"_

_I have it. The chance I needed. A way to win. I arch an eyebrow at him, and surprise even myself by how calm my voice is. "What's our plan tomorrow?"_

* * *

><p>I shake my head and refocus on Caesar. "The most important way to judge a tribute is through their interaction with their allies."<p>

Caesar smiles a bit at me. "You know all about that, don't you?"

I can't quite think of anything to say to that, so I just nod. After a second he clears his throat and turns to the cameras.

"So there you have it, sponsors! With these two tributes, the odds are sure to be in District 7's favor this year, so be sure to place your bets and make your contributions early and often."

The cameras turn off, Caesar stands up and leaves, and Bren, Sanderson, and I head back to our floor in silence, and I head to my room, thinking of taking a nap.

Only when I look at the nightstand do I see a small, opaque orange bottle, filled with white pills. Label: For Headaches.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Time for the weekly football re-cap! And it wasn't pretty, but after a hard-fought victory last Saturday, the Irish are finally back up to 2-2. Next up, Purdon't, so hopefully we'll actually pull our record ahead for the first time this season!

What? I'm supposed to talk about the story here? Oh. Well, thanks so much to everyone who's alerted, PMed me, and favorited! As for you reviewers... words simply can't describe. Y'all are amazing.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the Hunger Games. Nor do I own my little sisters, despite their cameos in this story. Although the fate of their characters certainly made good bargaining tools when divvying up chores (e.g. 'If you fold the laundry, I'll let you survive past the bloodbath...').

This chapter is rated T for language and violence. No blood, but certainly some gruesomeness.

Thanks, as always, to my amazing beta EStrunk!

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><p>Chapter 7.<p>

_"What exactly were you planning for this, Liv?"_

_Bren paces back and forth, radiating displeasure. He begins to tick off points on his fingers. "You still haven't allied with the Careers,__you only made a decent showing with your knives, and now you don't know anything that will convince the Gamemakers to score you high in private training? What were you _thinking?"

_"I showed the Careers what I could do with Kronos!"_

_"And that earned you an enemy who will kill you first thing unless you have powerful allies! Which you don't!"_

_I swallow. I can't show Bren I'm weak. Officially, he might be my mentor, but if I break down in tears I have a feeling he'll storm off in disgust. "I do have an idea," I mutter. "It's just . . ."_

_"Just _what?_"_

_Just that I don't want to do it. That no matter what my intentions are, using what I know like this . . . the only word I can come up with is one I've only seen in old books. Sacrilege. I'm not religious—most of that died out during the Dark Days—but that same sense of betrayal, of desecration fills my mind, dirties me, whenever I think about it._

_ But I can't tell Bren about my moral quandaries. That'll make him leave faster than crying. I keep my mouth shut._

_He sighs. "Liv, I'm not an idiot. I've seen you in District 7. You weren't made for these Games, no matter what you pretend. But if you want to survive, you're going to have to change. Understand?"_

_If I want to survive. Not if I want to win. It's not the same thing, but nobody seems to understand that. Can I still win, can I still remain myself, if I do what I'm thinking of? But if I don't, my plans for the arena won't work. I _need_ the Careers as allies, and not even Bren knows the real reason why. "I understand."_

* * *

><p>"You'll be fine. You'll <em>both<em> be fine."

Kev smiles. He's trying to look patient, but I can see the nervousness underneath. "We know that, Liv. Got it all planned out."

I turn to Mareen. "Look, I don't know what you're planning, but I'm guessing it involves protecting Kev, right?"

She glowers at me and I decide to take that for a 'yes.' "Then I think you should make yourself look strong. People expect him to be weak anyways because of his age, and if he gets a low score and you get a high one . . . they'll probably go after you instead of him."

Kev looks indignant at that, and Mareen doesn't deign to reply. Before I can try and convince them, the elevator arrives. Kev gets in, but as Mareen brushes past me I grab her arm. "Listen," I say, my voice low. "I know you hate me. But we both want Kev to live; don't let what you think about me get in the way of that."

She meets my eyes and slowly the defiance in her eyes softens to determination. "I know what I'm doing, Liv," she says. For the first time since this nightmare began her voice isn't laced with sarcasm, fear, or hatred. It's steady. Strong. Confident. "I'll do what I need to win."

She joins Kev on the elevator and the doors block them from view.

Not knowing what else to do, I go find Bren in his room. He looks up from a wooden box he's whittling and raises his eyebrows. "Nervous?"

Yes. "No," I tell him. Bren's one of the few people I'm normally honest with, but I can't bring myself to admit weakness, not when _they're_ listening. "Just bored. Mind if I hang out here?"

"I'll be bad company. I want to finish this."

"Better than nothing. And I'll keep quiet." I wander to the corner of the room where there's an entire stack of books, tattered and old. I don't recognize any of the titles or authors. Tolkien, Dickens, Twain . . . "What are all these?"

"Books from before the dark days. I thought you said you weren't going to talk."

"Sorry." I grab a book that's as wide as my palm by someone named Hugo and curl up in a chair, pretending to read. But either it's not very interesting or I just can't focus. My mind keeps drifting downstairs to both of my siblings, to what they could possibly be showing the Gamemakers . . . .

* * *

><p><em>The room is dead silent, the Gamemakers watching me attentively. I don't know what Kronos showed them, but they're shifting around in their seats, looking excited, and there are bits of stuffing that looks like it came from a training dummy spread across the floor. As if I don't have enough to do to prove myself, now I have to measure up against a guy twice my height and three times my weight.<em>

_No time to panic. No time to show fear. I march to the extra test dummies stacked against one wall and pick one up. They're life sized, so I can only carry one at a time, and the fact that it's bigger than me can't be making a good impression. I take one to the herb table, sweep aside the plants laid out there, and set the dummy on top. Then I place the second and third on the two weapons tables. I pick up a set of knives that were swept off the last, tuck five into my belt and twirl a sixth between my fingers like Bren taught me. The trick's not that difficult or dangerous if you know what you're doing—I'd done it with pens for years—but it looks impressive._

_For the first time since that glance when I entered the room, I look up at the Gamemakers. Their faces are calm, but I think I can see a bit of curiosity creeping in. I step back from my set up and start talking, still flipping the knife end over end._

_"You know, I probably shouldn't be angry with you, but your training program needs some serious corrections."_

_The knife stops spinning and lands flat in my palm. "These weapons for instance. I understand that requests for dissection knives, amputation saws, and clamps are a bit out of the ordinary, but I would have expected at least a scalpel. I suppose I'll have to make do with these instead."_

_I draw a second knife and tap the dummy's neck on either side with each blade. "These are the external jugular vein and carotid artery. Puncture either one—" Two knives ram into the neck at slightly different angles. My voice remains just as calm, an instructor laying out basic facts to her class. "And they bleed out."_

_I move to the second dummy, which I had the foresight to lay on its face. "These are the C3 and C4 vertebrae, although really almost any in the neck will do. Stabbing between them—" The third knife rams in. "—Severs the spinal column. Fatal. If you want to be doubly sure, you simply push in. . ." I demonstrate, send the knife straight up to its hilt. "—Or jerk it up and down. Like this."_

_I move farther down the dummy. "These are the kidneys. The patient's right is slightly lower than the left, but if you strike about here—" I stab the right side, hold on to the knife, and rip it through the dummy as if I'm gutting it. I try not to see my father doing surgery, telling me to be careful, precise, that what he's doing can save or end a life. "—You'll get them either way. Also fatal. Maybe not in five seconds or even five minutes, but a person struck here will have severe internal bleeding, not to mention the usual excruciating pain caused by a stab wound."_

_The last one. I look at it, and suddenly it morphs in my eyes from a padded figure into that little blond girl from District 10. I can't do this. I can't, I can't, I—"Your dummies are also a little off," I say lightly, looking up at them. "You etched the shape of the ribs, but there's nothing solid there. Nothing to make sure that we learn to slip the knife in _here_," I'm so afraid of doing it gingerly that I plunge the knife in deeper than I planned. I almost expect to see blood gushing. "—To reach the heart. Of course, the fastest way for this to work is to pull the blade back _out_—" It almost doesn't come loose it's stuck so badly, but I get it after only a bit of fumbling. "—so that the blood can flow unobstructed. And then you still have your knife, which you can use to stab here, or here, or here, or _here!"

_The knife punches into the eye, the windpipe, the lungs in quick succession. I feel tears building as I jab it in the mouth, take my last knife and scream in pure, primal rage as I stab into the solar plexus. Then I look up._

_The Gamemakers are watching me, their faces blank. But it's not a blank judging expression, it's pure shock. They're not the only ones. I'm shaking all over. I hate these Games, hate them, hate myself, for this._

_"My father was a surgeon." I tell them, my voice a bare whisper. "He taught me to put people together. But that's not what I'm going to do. I'm going to take them _apart._"_

_I move back to the first table and stand behind it._

_"Anyone who comes against me will be dismantled like one of these. Piece—"_

_I shove my fingers under the table and send it and the pincushioned dummy to the ground. The crash makes several of them jump. I move to the second table._

_"By—"_

_It crashes onto its side._

_"Piece."_

_The third table and its poor battered dummy sail across the floor I shove so hard. Then the room is quiet, so quiet my breathing seems loud. I jerk my head up and look them in the eyes. "Thank you for your consideration."_

_I walk out, cool and collected as a cat._

_The door has barely closed behind me when my stomach heaves. I double over, retching, sending up lunch and breakfast and what feels like every other meal I've ever eaten. I don't fight it. It's a natural enough reaction; when you eat something poisonous, your body vomits to cleanse itself. But no matter how much I spit, how raw my throat feels, how empty my stomach gets, I know I'll never be clean again._

* * *

><p>I avoid Mareen and Kev when they come back from training. I figure if either one wants to talk about what happened, they'll come find me. If not, I should let them adjust. They've just shown themselves and a room full of strangers that they're killers. I can't do much, but the privacy to deal with that their own way . . . they deserve that much dignity.<p>

Sure enough, both of them are grim-faced when I come out for supper. Janus fills the table with inane chatter, and Petronius and Lewis help him a bit, but all of us—even our sponsor and stylist—are giving them anxious glances.

Finally, around dessert time, Janus breaks the unspoken taboo with all his usual Capitol tact.

"So Liv never _would_ tell me what she managed in her training session last year, but I'm _dying_ to know what you two got up to today!"

The two of them exchange a long glance. Finally, Kev shrugs a bit. "I guess it's not really a secret. I climbed."

_"Climbed?"_ Sanderson's face is very disapproving, but Kev grins at him.

"They have a rock wall in the training room. It's not quite as good as a tree, but it was pretty easy to get up. With the bow and arrows. The targets are actually easier to hit from that height once you adjust to the angle, which is good since I only started learning archery a few days ago. And it looks a lot more impressive."

Showmanship. Proving not only that he's good with a weapon, but that he can play to an audience, think outside the box. Mareen's face is unsurprised, but the rest of the table looks pretty thoughtful. I wonder again how I've managed overlook my little brother's cleverness; the media always said that I was the most devious victor they'd had in years, but I think Kev's the one who really got the brains in our family.

"What about you, Mareen?" Petronius asks, catching a feather before it lands in his fruit dish. He even _eats_ like a bird; the rest of us have been feasting on Capitol delicacies and all he takes are nuts and fruits. I guess I should be glad it's not mice or insects. "What did you come up with?"

"Me?" Mareen snorts and looks around the dining room. Her voice is almost poisonously sweet. "I flipped my hair at them and said I was too pretty to die of course."

Janus laughs, but he's the only one who does. The rest of us all watch her carefully, trying to decide if she's serious.

"Why don't we go see the training scores?" Lewis asks before I can demand a better answer. "They should be on in just a few minutes."

The rest agree quickly and we leave the table. I see Kev snitch a pastry before he goes—he probably knows how much he'll need the extra pounds before he's put into the arena. I did the same thing last year, although it didn't do me much good. My build's just not right for muscle or even fat. In the Capitol, that's considered pretty. In the arena, it's one more vulnerability.

The room with the TV is large, with enough sofas for every one of us to sit on a different couch, but we somehow end up sharing anyways. Chalk it up to human nature. Mareen takes the seat besides Bren and Kev's next to Sanderson. Janus jams himself in between Lewis and Martin and either pretends to be or really is oblivious to the disgusted stares they give him. I think about going next to Petronius—he even scoots over a bit when I catch his eye, but then I see Mareen glaring at me. I'm _not_ going to be driven off from where I want to sit just because my sister's on the other side of Bren.

Of course, once I'm there I can practically feel the tension ratchet up. I ignore it. Mareen needs to start listening to me if she's going to have a chance and that means I can't let myself feel guilty, can't let her use what I've done to make me do what she wants.

The anthem is so loud in our silent room that Petronius squawks in surprise when it starts blaring. The Capitol seal is shown, and the screen flickers to show the first Tribute.

District 1, male. Seventeen years old, with a scar across his face. The picture vanishes and a score flashes up . . . ten.

"Watch him," I comment. Mareen sighs.

"We've been watching him for _three days_, Liv. We know."

District 1, female. Eight.

District 2, male. He looks nothing like Dannis, but I can't block out the memories. Nine.

District 2, female. Seven.

"She's weaker than most of the Careers!" I tell Mareen hopefully. "I think if you and Kev work on her together you might have a shot at—"

"I KNOW, LIV!"

I stare past Bren at her, and she's glaring at me. Bren sighs.

"Both of you stay quiet through this, alright? We'll figure out the sibling rivalry _later. _When your lives don't depend on what you see."

District 3. Five and four. Nothing too threatening.

District 4. Eight and ten. That girl is as muscular as most of the men I know, and that's saying something considering I grew up around lumberjacks.

District 5 and District 6. Three, four, four, and five. Nothing too special or surprising there.

District 7, male. Kev's face is white as a sheet as he watches the screen . . .

Seven.

_"Alright, kid!"_ Sanderson and he exchange high-fives, Kev grinning like he's just escaped from the jaws of death. Which, come to think of it, he might have. It's a good score, possibly better than his performance strictly deserved even—they might have given points because of my record or the toughness he showed earlier on the train or something like that. Who knows? I open my mouth to congratulate him but Bren shoots me a look and I shut up. Right. No talking.

District 7, female. Mareen's picture flashes up, dark and dangerous . . .

Four.

The room goes dead quiet. I feel myself starting to shake, but when I look at Mareen she's staring straight ahead at the screen, her expression fixed. Bren puts a hand on my shoulder, and nods towards the TV. I look at Kev, trying to gauge if this is part of the plan, but his face is so blank I know he's copying me and refusing to give anything away.

District 8, male. Kid's about Mareen's age, but _he_ somehow managed to scrape a five. My fury starts to build. I can't keep quiet, I'm going to have to speak, protest, demand an explanation from—

"I tried to talk him into allying with us," Kev says brightly, as if he doesn't notice anything else going on. "But he didn't seem very interested in teaming up with anyone, not even with his District partner, Lana. She's alright, though. Shy and timid, but she . . ."

I know he's trying to keep the argument from starting, and somehow, crazily, it works. He blathers on about how that District 8 girl probably earned her six more due to her age and size than her skill; she never even touched the weapons in the training center. The kids from District 9 both earned fives, but he says he likes them, that they're stronger than the training scores show. He says the same about the District 10 pair too, where the boy got a five and the girl, the one who's so like Ames I flinch watching her on the screen, a six. I hope his liking for all these kids doesn't mean he'll try to make them allies; they're pretty young. Then again, they all also scored higher than Mareen and he's going to ally with _her._

District 11. Three and four.

District 12. Sure enough, that tall boy I marked as trouble gets another ten. The girl's tiny, though, and manages the all time low of a two.

Janus turns off the screen and looks around the room nervously, licking his lips. "Well, um, that was wonderful! So exciting! Maybe we should all go to bed now and, um, leave things for—"

"Shut up." Bren's voice is flat, almost a whisper, but Janus obeys. The rest of the room, even Mareen and I, stare at him. He stands up so that there's nothing separating us and folds his arms.

"Alright you two. Have it out."

"What?" Mareen's look is completely blank.

"You're going into that arena in two days, girl!" Bren glares at her and, instead of spitting his temper back at him like I would, she shrinks away. "You'd better know who you can trust and who you can't, in _and_ out of the arena, so you and Liv are going to work out your differences before they get you killed! Now talk it out! Both of you!"

"You call them '_differences?'"_ I snarl. "Mareen, I've never been so _ashamed_ of you. You've just handed yourself to the Careers! They'll kill you first chance they get and now there's not a chance in hell I'll even be able to get you a sponsor. And that's _if_ you survive long enough to use what they send you!"

"I was thinking that—"

"Don't pretend you were _thinking_ anything! You needed to go in hot, to make them pay attention to you, and instead you did _that?_ Do you not want to survive, is that it? Do you not want Kev to make it? Do you—"

"I DON'T WANT TO BE YOU!"

Mareen jumps up and jabs a finger in my face. "You think I'm scared, Liv? Well, you're right! I'm terrified! Terrified that I'll go into that arena and end up destroying everything I believe in! I don't care if I die, and neither does Kev! And we've agreed that if we're going out, we're going to make a difference doing it—that the Capitol is never, _ever_ going to see us break like you did! If that means getting slaughtered, so be it!"

Silence.

"You think that's going to work?" I can't contain my disbelief. "That they'll just let you be a hero? You can't win against these people, Mareen. They'll watch your antics, laughing the whole time, and then they'll destroy you."

"How would you know?" Mareen's voice changes to match mine. It's a deadly hiss. "You never even _tried."_

Dannis. Kronos. Dad. Ames. That boy from Six. She doesn't know. She doesn't know the half of it. I never cried for them. For any of them, even Dad. But now I find tears struggling against my eyes. And that emotion makes me lose it like I haven't since my private training session.

"Get out," I whisper. Mareen just stares at me, and suddenly the first thing I can reach—a decorative ceramic lamp—is in my hands. "Get _out!"_

She backs up slowly, and the lamp sails past her ear, crashes on the wall behind her. "GET OUT!"

I grab the side table and heave it at her. It only flies a few feet, but it's enough that Mareen turns and starts running. I seize some other knick knack, draw my hand back to throw, and someone catches my wrist. Bren. He twists, makes me drop it just as Mareen flings herself out the door.

"YOU THINK YOU KNOW ME? YOU THINK I'M THAT MONSTER YOU CAN JUST HATE?" I try to slip free of Bren, but he pulls me in towards him, wraps me against his chest so I can't move. "GO ON AND DIE THEN! I'LL BE WATCHING LIKE I DID WITH EVERYONE ELSE I CARED ABOUT! YOU'LL BLEED OUT IN THAT ARENA WHEN I COULD HAVE SAVED YOU, JUST LIKE—"

A door slams down the hall and I know she can't hear me anymore. There's no one left in the room except me and Bren. He lets me go warily as the tension drains out. Without the anger to sustain me, all I can feel is pain, right where my heart should be. I fall back, shaking, and the only reason I don't hit the floor is that the sofa's still behind me. I never tried. Is she right? Did I make that decision the day I chose to become a killer in the training room?

"Do you . . . are you going to be alright?" Bren asks.

"No." I close my eyes, fold my knees to my chest. Never tried. Die before they're like me. "I'd like to be left alone please."

He turns to go, but as I hear him open the door, I can't help but speak my thoughts aloud.

"You shouldn't have kept me alive. In the arena. You should have let me die."

He pauses. I hear him turn around again, feel his eyes on me. "Yes. I'm beginning to think I should have."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Alright, for the first time this season, the Irish have a winning season on their hands! 3-2! And, to the delight of the single ladies on campus, the Air Force is visiting for the next game... hopefully they'll take a leaf out of Navy's book and bring a bunch of their students too.

Anyways, for anyone who's interested, there was another shout-out here, this one to Victor Hugo and his book _Les Miserables._ The idea of good people forced into horrible situations, as well as a main character haunted by his past, were both big inspirations for the story, so I figured I'd give them a mention here.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8.

I don't see Mareen and Kev—or anyone else for that matter—the next day. I stay up in my room despite Janus arriving around noon and vainly demanding that I join the group. Even the Avoxes stay away. By the next day, though, claustrophobia sets in and drives me to the rooftop garden, where I lean up against the railing edge, staring straight down the drop. I feel that strange tingling at the soles of my feet that I always get when I'm up too high; it's as if my body is torn between anchoring itself to the ground or taking the leap.

_Go on,_ some small voice in my head whispers. _The drama might even help Mareen and Kev. Get them sympathy. More sponsors._ They say you don't feel anything from this height. That you'd already be unconscious before you hit the ground.

"It's got a force field you know. Anyone who tries to jump will just be flung back onto the roof."

I spin and see Bren joining me, the sound of his footsteps covered by the sound of the wind blowing everywhere up here and the noise of the city below. I deliberately turn away from him, stare out at the buildings, their brilliant colored glass swirls and strange, fluted architecture.

He stands next to me, leans his elbows on the railing. I think about leaving, but decide not to give him the satisfaction of driving me away.

"Are you still angry?" he asks idly. I don't answer. Bren Nellon and his plans, his pity, and his help can go to hell for all I care.

"You know . . ." he says quietly, "With this wind, their microphones have a hard time picking up on what we're saying. You might as well get things off your chest."

I still don't answer. Bren's one of the few people who's more stubborn than I am, but I figure if I don't say anything, he'll eventually have to go away.

"Look, Liv, I know you probably hate me for what I said last night. About you dying. But I was just saying what you and I both know. If you hadn't lived, if I'd let you go in there like you'd wanted, Mareen and Kev wouldn't be—"

"How long was it?" I'm still not looking at him, but I can't let him say it. That they wouldn't be here if I was dead. Easier to talk about something else, anything else. "How long did you know that Mareen's entire plan consists of them getting slaughtered? And don't play innocent, Bren. You knew."

"I knew." Bren's voice is easy, almost casual. "Just like I knew your plan was never to join with the Careers."

"What?" I lose control for the briefest second and our gazes meet, lock. I jerk away, as if burned, and he answers.

"I survived off of reading people in my arena, Liv. And I'd seen you around the district before you were reaped. There was no way that sweet-natured girl was as tough as you pretended. But I didn't stop you. I figured that if that was what you wanted, the most I could do was help you."

"But you didn't," I hiss. "You ended up keeping me alive anyway. When I wanted to die, when I was ready to die, you chose to make me keep going."

"And I've regretted it ever since. Liv . . . ." I can practically hear him running his hands through his hair, the way he always does when he's frustrated. "You were ready to die and I didn't respect that. And you and I both know that that was the wrong choice. Now you want me to do the same for your siblings? Make them live even if it breaks them as badly as it did you? Maybe they should live out their lives threatened by Catiline, doing whatever he wants, like I am? Or watch the people they love die, like you? Is that what you want?"

What can I say to that? There's an answer. I _know_ there's some sort of answer, but I can't seem to find it. Bren watches as I open my mouth, then shut it when I can't figure out anything to say.

"You don't have to agree with my choice," he finally says. "But your siblings are going to their interviews tonight, then the arena tomorrow. And if you haven't made your peace with them before they die . . ."

I flinch.

"They're getting ready for the interviews now. But tonight, afterwards, go see them. Especially Mareen. She needs you right now."

"She hates me." I hate the way my voice cracks on the words.

"Nah, she doesn't. Oh, she'll pretend, in the interviews. She and Kev have come too far on that road to backtrack. And she might even believe it herself. But she doesn't really."

"It's not fake," I mutter. "I'm not stupid, I can see it. And Mareen can't act, not well enough to fool me."

"Look." Bren drops all pretense of casualness, his voice deepening as he looks me straight in the eye. "Put yourself in her shoes for a minute. She's woken up to your screams for the past two months, lost most of her innocence watching those Games, and your dad after that. Now she's being put in the arena, and she's already seen that surviving might not be better than the alternative. And _you_, the big sister she always looked up to, can't do anything to help her."

"So she blames me." That's deserved, I suppose. Doesn't make it any easier, though.

"She's _scared,_ Liv. Mareen's so terrified of making your mistakes that she's trying to drive you away. And the worst part is, it's working! You've been through this, you're probably the only one who can reach her right now, give her the strength to win, and instead you're letting her lock you out. You want to help her? Go to those interviews, look her in the eye, and decide that, no matter what she says, you're still on her side."

He heads for the door downstairs, then turns back and looks at me. "Coming?"

Damn him. He's playing me perfectly, but he's also right. I'm being childish staying up here. I nod and follow.

We rejoin the rest of the group on the elevator. Petronius, Arius, and Janus are all staring at me, and Mareen and Kev are so forcefully _not_ looking at me that it's almost as obvious as the stares.

They both look stunning. Kev's in a dark green suit with leaves faintly etched into the cloth, while Mareen's flowing red dress, the color of fall, has gold oak leaf clasps connecting the thick straps to the bodice. Petronius and Arius are practically bouncing up and down with excitement whenever they glance at them and I can't blame them. I swallow.

"You look great," I say honestly once the door closes and the elevator starts to go down. There are so many other things I want to say, but before I can figure out whether I'm going to shout or beg forgiveness or what, the doors open and we're at the stage in front of the Training Building again. I rock back on my heels and struggle against the déjà vu. The last time I was up here it was me going to sit in those seats, me on performance, me who turned into the monster . . . .

The stylists peel off for their own spot on one side and Mareen and Kev are sent to line up with the other tributes, but Janus, the other victors, and I are led to the right wing of the stage. From this angle, I'll be looking at the backs of my siblings, Caesar's face. I risk a glance at the gigantic screens set up for the far away crowd and see that I'm on camera, expression as arrogant as ever. The sleek, long sleeved black dress Petronius left outside my door this morning helps; I somehow look even more aloof than usual, as if I've been covered with shadow. I'm reminded of my district's fairy tales of evil women who haunt the woods. The ones who murdered their oh-so-innocent little step-children and are said to be condemned to wander the forests as demons.

We take our seats, and to my great relief the camera drifts away to the District 4 mentors entering in with their twittering teams of stylists that seem to feed on the attention. I stare straight ahead, blocking out the noise of the crowd, the way Bren is watching me, the sidelong glances the others throw my way. In fact, I somehow manage to keep myself from thinking altogether.

A loud roar jerks me back to awareness. I look up and see Caesar strut on stage, his horribly pasty face even paler in the bright lights, his green hair garish. He waves at the crowd, makes a few jokes, then turns to the District 1 girl. I try to remember what I know about her. Eight in training. Strong, but not overly muscular; I'm guessing her strategy relies more on speed or skill than strength. She does a good job of playing the audience, confident and tough, but the impression I get is an overall standard Career.

The District 1 boy is next, the one who got a ten. His angle doesn't seem to be anything that new; brutish and strong. It plays well with the audience though.

And so it goes. Both from District 2 do well, although the girl is clearly less of a crowd pleaser because of her lower training score. District 3, as always, goes for sly and brainy. Four's girl, the one who earned herself a ten, is a piece of work. If I had to guess, I'd say she's going to be the one who ends up leading the pack if there is one this year. Five and Six don't leave much of an impression, to be honest, although District 6's boy looks hauntingly like the one from my Games.

Seven, female. Mareen steps up, head held high. I hear the crowd murmur with interest.

_I'm on her side,_ I try to remember, _I want her to survive, I can't hold this against her, whatever it is._

"Mareen Caldwell!" Caesar sounds genuinely excited as she shakes his hand, his green lips stretching back to reveal pure white teeth. "I have to say, I'm getting all sorts of flashbacks here. You and your sister look so much alike!"

My sister's smile somehow combines flirtatious with tough. "We may look like each other, Caesar, but we're not the same. Not at all."

"Do I sense a little bit of sibling rivalry?" Caesar turns his grin on the crowd. "Well, we don't want her stealing all the glory, now do we? What would you say sets the two of you apart?"

"Our priorities." No hesitation.

"How so?"

"Liv's smart, and she knows how to take care of herself. But she's always got to be in control, always works alone, and doesn't listen to others."

Caesar cocks his head, and his voice sounds genuinely puzzled now. He's not being the interviewer, his question is honest curiosity. "Isn't that a good thing in the Games? To look out for yourself?"

"If your priority is to survive, Caesar. But I'm here for Kev, and I _will_ get him out alive. No matter what."

She pauses, waits as the crowd cheers. They love it when the tributes are like this. Strong, selfless, brave. They love watching them break or die. "Liv can't prioritize like that. Can't put others first."

* * *

><p><em>"Hang on, Mareen! I'm coming."<em>

_I stare up at the tree where my sister's clinging. I hate heights. But she needs me up there, needs someone to get her down. There's no time to run for help from the grown-ups. I swing myself onto the branch and start to climb._

Don't look down, don't look down, don't look down. _The bark is rough on my hands; I scrape my knee so badly I feel blood start to drip through the knee of my pants. Can't stop, I'm barely halfway there, I need to get to—_

_"Livy! Livy, watch out! There's a blood—"_

_Movement. I jerk back, lose my grip. A bloodmouth buries itself right where my hand was, but I don't care because I'm falling, crashing through branches and leaves, grasping, shrieking, need to—_WHAM!

_My stomach folds over a limb, my breath whooshes out. I choke, try to balance. Mareen. Mareen, at the top of the tree. With bloodmouths. Move._

_My legs scrabble, and I somehow claw my way back onto the branch. I catch another with both hands and manage to swing myself to the top of it. Got to get my sister._

_I work steadily, ignore the bark tearing through my palms, the bloody smears dotting my shirt where I've been poked by branches. Mareen's sobbing, and I want to cry too. I've seen bodies of people who fell from trees. Daddy showed them to me when he started teaching me about surgeries. I can't let that happen to Mareen, but I don't want it to be me either. And a bloodmouth . . ._

_The branches are starting to thin out. One bends and snaps under my hand, and I barely keep from falling again. The trunk of the tree branches into the crown, I'm holding on with only my legs, and suddenly my hand's on Mareen's shirt. I'm only eight, but she's much smaller than me, and the moment I touch her, she's clinging to me like a baby animal to it's__mom. I nearly lose my balance, but I can't let her go. She's my sister. I'll get her down somehow._

* * *

><p>I feel more shocked than if she'd punched me in the gut. My inward composure, the need to hold on, to support her and stay strong, shatter like a falling icicle. <em>Can't put others first.<em>

How can she think that? No matter what she saw during the Games, how can Mareen think that that's me? That I could completely change from that girl who saved her life to a monster just because I was put in the Games?

Only, she's right. I did.

Mareen saunters back to her seat, and Kev goes up.

"And little Kev! Thirteen, but already getting a seven on your training?"

Kev gives a self-deprecating smile. "Apparently your standards have gone down lately, Caesar. I thought for sure I'd be the first person to get a one."

"Oh, now I'm sure that's not the case!" Caesar smiles at him winningly. "Why, with Mareen around to protect you and your own impressive scores, you seem guaranteed to win! So, Kev, tell me: where do you weigh in on this great sister-sister debate? Has Mareen been helping?"

"Very much. But I think she's going to be the one to make it out alive, at least if I have my way. I'm not going to let my sister get hurt."

Caesar sighs, and I can practically see the Capitol crowd melting. Unlike Mareen, who merely looks like a protective, fierce big sister, Kev's small, pointed face, his stubborn jaw, his thin, bony height somehow seem endearing and strong all at once.

"There's nothing quite like family loyalty," Caesar sighs. "What about your other sister? Liv?"

I feel sick dread pool in my stomach. I somehow know exactly what Kev's going to say about me, the one thing that's utter truth and a complete lie.

"Well, technically she's not my sister."

* * *

><p><em>"We can't just leave him, Daddy!"<em>

_"Livy, you can't save everyone. If you're ever going to be a doctor here, you need to learn that."_

_"But Daddy, he's all alone! His mom's dead, and now he's going to starve if he doesn't get someone to look after him."_

_"He won't be on the streets, Livy. We'll put him in one of the community homes. Their job is to take care of kids like him—he'll be fine."_

_But I've seen the kids in the community homes. Daddy has too. He's taken care of some of them, the broken ribs and bruised faces from fights, the constant starvation in the smallest ones because all the big kids take their food. They can't help it. They're starving too. I feel tears spilling over my eyes as I look at the five year old playing with his set of old wooden blocks. He doesn't even know his mom's dead, and now he's going to be hurt or maybe even killed there because he's so tiny._

_"Why can't we take him home with us?"_

_"Livy, he isn't a puppy. You can't__just adopt him."_

_"No, he's more important! Daddy, he's just a kid, he's going to die if we don't take care of him! And Mommy always said she wanted to have a boy before she—she—"_

_Daddy's face goes sad, the way it always does when he thinks of Mom and how his medicines didn't work. He watches the little boy._

_"Livy, we just don't have enough space at home, enough food. Most of our patients can't pay, and I have enough trouble taking care of you and Mareen—"_

_"Then put me there instead! I'm already ten, I can protect myself. He needs someone to take care of him, Daddy."_

_Daddy stares at me, and I try not to cry. "His name's Kev! I watched him once in school when his mom was too sick to come take him home! And he got scared and I said I'd take care of him. I said—I said—" I start sobbing. _

_Daddy gives a very big sigh._

* * *

><p>I'm too stunned to really listen to the rest of Kev's interview. All I can see is that five year old. The stained wooden blocks. Taking him home that night, and how hungry he was because his mom hadn't been able to feed him properly for over a year. How he followed me around for weeks. My brother.<p>

The crowd roars again as he turns and sits down, and I know that I'm on every TV screen in Panem. But I'm not their hero victor now, I'm the same villain he sees.

With my mind so confused, I automatically switch into survival mode. My senses sharpen, and I'm listening to every word of the interviews carefully, cataloguing, sorting, judging. Eight's girl. Sweet and shy. Strange angle for an eighteen year old, but she plays it so well I wonder if it's genuine. Eight's boy, independent, but not as tough as he tries to pretend. Nine's girl is a disaster but the boy is a crowd pleaser, with that strange, lilting accent some of his district has and a sense of humor that even has the District 7 mentors chuckling. Except me. Ten's girl speaks very slowly, as if afraid of misspeaking, and she stares past Caesar like she sees more than what's in front of her. I can't decide if she's making a good impression or not. The boy acts far more cocky than his training score of five deserves. Eleven's are obviously malnourished. Twelve's girl is as pathetic as most from her district, squeaking her answers, but the boy . . . he's a charmer. He has this direct, sincere tone of voice, and an expressive, honest face that makes it work well. He's clearly a crowd pleaser too, and that combined with a training score that's higher than most of the Careers . . . .

I manage to keep myself distracted until Twelve sits back down and the crowd roars its approval. The tributes are led off first, and one intoxicated group of fans tries so hard to jump up on stage that it's several minutes before the crowd's under control and we can follow onto the elevators. Bren and I get on one, and when Sanderson and Martin try to join us, he pushes them out. The door closes with only us in it.

"I told you," I say, leaning against the back rail and folding my arms as if that'll somehow hold me together. "I told you they hate me."

"And I told you they'd have to fake it. Liv, they were your siblings before these Games. This doesn't have to change anything." My expression doesn't change, so he adds. "Or at least it shouldn't; nobody wins that way except—"

The elevator stops before he can finish, the unsaid words hanging strong in the air. Nobody wins that way except for the Capitol. When my family falls apart, they win. And my siblings die.

The doors open and I see Mareen and Kev waiting for us. Kev glances at me hesitantly, as if I'm an animal that might attack him if he looks it in the eye. Mareen's not even doing that much—at first I think she's sulking, with the way she's glaring at the ground but then I remember what Bren said. Fear. Could that really be it?

Bren nudges me in the ribs and I flinch. I want to talk with them, I really do, I even open my mouth to say so, but then the other elevator's door opens and Janus swoops out to pull them into a hug. Sanderson, Martin, Lewis, and a very squished-looking Petronius join him, in the hall and I end up staying quiet, trying desperately to put my thoughts in order.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Thanks a million for all the help, EStrunk! Also, reviewers... words can't express.

Just as fair warning, this fic is probably going to switch to an M rating in a couple of chapters (once the Games themselves start). It's going to be more for psychological darkness than actual gore or language (and, no, there's no steamy romance either), but that does mean it might be a good idea to put this on story alert if you want to keep track of the updates since it won't show up on the boards in their default setting. Not to mention it gives me the warm fuzzies to know y'all are reading. Also, next week's update is almost-certainly going to be skipped because I'm going to be on a service trip and don't think I'll have internet that week.

But on the upside, the Irish did fantastic last week! Highest number of points in a game since 1996! Now it's just USC weekend after next... if we win against no one else, we HAVE to beat them.


	9. Chapter 9

Credit, as always, to EStrunk for her marvelous beta-work! If you're into Gale/Katniss ships, I'd HIGHLY recommend her story Ever In Your Favor.

* * *

><p>Chapter 9.<p>

Before I can say anything, before I can think of anything _to _say, Janus drags the lot of us into the living room to watch the replays. And those are almost as horrible as the interviews themselves. Some of the shock is gone, but that only means I'm able to give my fullest attention as, one after the other, my siblings make it very clear they want nothing to do with me. I swallow, but keep my face blank. I don't want to give away my feelings when even _I_ don't know what they are any more.

When they finally end, everyone drifts out of the room one by one. None of them speak—even Janus seems to have picked up on the tension. Petronius swoops in and kisses both of my siblings on either cheek, waggles his fingers at me in good-bye, and then he's gone and, while I'm very carefully studying a seam on one of the couch's cushions, I hear the door close behind my brother and sister.

"Well?"

I look up and see that Bren and I are the only ones left inside. And he's watching me, not accusing but . . . expectant. Waiting for me to go and talk to them. His words from earlier come back to me. _If you haven't made your peace with them before they die . . . . _

I'm not a coward, but suddenly the thought of that stabs at me like the scalpel that killed Dad. I can't do that. Not after him and Dannis and Ames and—

I stand up so fast that the blood rushes to my head, or maybe it's the choking panic, and I stumble from the room, down the hall, pound on Mareen's door. I've barged in before she even finishes saying "Come in."

I don't know what I expected, but to see her crying wasn't it. The moment she sees me, she flinches back and quickly swipes the tears from her eyes. I look away to let her compose herself and my eyes land on a small wooden box sitting on her dresser with a tree carved on the lid.

"Your district token?" I ask awkwardly, picking it up. It's heavier than I expected; District 7 mostly harvests shortleaf pine, but this is some sort of hardwood. Persimmon, I think.

"Yeah. Bren carved it for me and Kev's got a matching one. The Gamemakers worried they weighed too much, that we might use them to smash through someone's skulls or something, but they made it through in the end."

"Right." What was my district token? I try to think back but don't remember bringing anything in. It just hadn't seemed important at the time. "Well, it looks like it might be kind of useful . . . if you . . . um . . . needed to store something small or . . . something . . ." My pathetic attempt at conversation peters out and I can feel the tension building, catching in my throat and making it impossible to speak.

"Look, Liv I—"

She breaks off, staring at me. Her eyes are still watering. "Hating you—blaming you—being afraid—I didn't want to do it, it just . . . just _happened._ I don't know why, I wish I did, but once it did, it was easier to just keep going and—"

"Mareen—"

She seems to realize she's babbling and her mouth snaps shut. After a minute she opens it again, but this time her voice is controlled. "Do you remember that day Dad tried to show me a surgery?"

"And you passed out?" It was the first time he let me put in sutures by myself; Mareen had gashed her chin open, and Dad had needed to finish the operation, so I had stitched her up.

She rubs the tiny scar ruefully and nods. "You had been so excited beforehand, had promised to show me every single body part. I barely made it past Dad pushing the scalpel in before . . ."

Her voice trails away again, but she seems to be in control now, so I don't interrupt. Slowly she sits on the edge of the bed, and I sit next to her. Mareen's eyes are straight ahead, trapped in the memories.

"My first . . . my first conscious thought was: 'Livy's going to be so disappointed,'" she finally says. "I tried . . . so hard to make you proud then. I looked up to you so much. And I can't help it, maybe I still do; maybe I've just gotten into the habit of acting like you would. So when you said . . . after the training scores, you said you were ashamed of me, and I just . . ."

I want to speak up then, say something about how she at least didn't throw furniture, but she takes a deep, shaky breath, and I know her well enough to tell that that means she isn't done. "I said I didn't want to be you, Liv. I think the thing that scares me most is that that's a lie. And now that I'm about to go into the arena . . . what if I become like you there?"

"You won't." My voice is calm, certain, where Mareen's is soft and afraid. "You won't, Mareen. I promise."

"How can you be so sure?"

I can't. To be perfectly, brutally honest, I can't. But Mareen needs confidence more than she needs the truth. So I give her the best argument I can. "Because of Kev. Listen, I don't know your strategy. I don't need to. But if you put Kev before you, if you protect him, keep him from getting hurt or—or hurting someone innocent—" I have to shut my eyes for a second against that horrible image—"you won't be me, Mareen." She won't be me. She won't. She can't.

Mareen nods but she's still crying. I don't quite know what to do—will comfort from me help or will it just reinforce that the person she's relied on half her life is a monster? Before I can make up my mind, start pulling away, she leans her head onto my shoulder. Instinct kicks in and I put an arm around her, rest my chin on the top of her head like we always did when we were kids and she'd come visit me after a nightmare.

The door opens and we jerk up to find Kev standing at the door. He obviously didn't expect to see me here; when our eyes meet he seems to shrink in on himself. But I speak up before he can try to back out.

"Come on in, Kev."

I think, in some ways, his words at the interviews hurt far more than Mareen's did, simply because they were comparatively unexpected. But it's far too late for me to be angry, and he senses that somehow. He's still hesitant, but when he sits, it's next to me. After a minute, he lays down, head in my lap, and Mareen slumps against me again.

I'm still furious at the Capitol, bitter towards myself, sick when I think of what's going to happen tomorrow. But I hold them both as they slowly fall asleep, refusing to so much as twitch, even when my arms go numb. I don't ever want to let go.

* * *

><p><em>It's raining when I arrive back in District 7. Appropriate.<em>

_The mentors—even Martin, who coached Kronos—are all excited, chattering to each other and smiling proudly, although none of them can compete with Janus who is practically leaping in the air every time he takes a step. Bren's nowhere to be found. Sanderson muttered something about a hangover when I asked. After that confrontation last night, I have a feeling he'll be avoiding me for a while. Hope he will, at least._

_The train pulls up to the station and I find myself shaking, almost more afraid than any time in the arena. Dad. . . he thought I wouldn't survive. He as good as _told_ me not to survive. Instead, I lost. I came back._

_Twenty-three other kids never will._

_There are cameras everywhere, lights snapping as reporters take pictures, District 7 people cheering crazily as I step down, but my eyes are searching desperately for—_

_The crowd clears and I see two people, smaller than I am, waiting for me. They're drenched to the skin, even though the rain's slowed to a drizzle; they've probably been here for hours._

_"Mareen? Kev?" I look around the station, but the cameras are backing up and I just don't see. . . "Where's Dad?"_

_"He—he couldn't come, Livy." Kev's voice is soft, pitying. Mareen, standing next to him, looks like she's about to cry. "He tried, but he just couldn't make himself—"_

_It's all a lie. Home. Love. Redemption. I feel this desperate tightening in my chest, near hysteria rising up, and with it the faces, the twenty-three names: Ames and Dannis and Kronos and Destiny and Bahari and. . . I was kidding myself. There's no forgiveness, not for me, not for the monster I turned into. Did I really expect it?_

_Mareen hugs me and then Kev too, interrupting my thoughts. I hug them back fiercely, realizing that they're not flinching, that they're solid and real and warm, not like the ghosts I see rising all around me. I just need someone who doesn't think I'll kill them, who's not afraid of me, who still sees me as something more than a murderer, a victor. I shove aside the names, the faces, Dad and Bren and surviving._

_For one second, I'm home._

* * *

><p>I wake up from a doze to an Avox shaking Mareen's shoulder. We're all so tangled together that both Kev and I feel it. We sit up together.<p>

"It's time."

My words hang in the air. Fear and loss and desperation are suddenly palpable in the air, all the emotions I've suppressed, and the knowledge that this is the last time. The last. I take a deep breath, hold both of their hands. "I can't go with you to the stockyard. So. . . this is good-bye."

I want to say so much. I love them. I'll be looking out for them. I'll protect them in there. But the Avox is watching, and their faces are already hardening for the cameras and I know I can't do it or they'll break down again. I square my shoulders, stand, and almost march out. I'll never see one of them after this. Or both. Instead I'll watch them die. I turn at the door and can barely speak past the lump in my throat.

"Take care of yourselves."

The door closes and I don't look back.

It's still early, but as I pass through the dining room I see Bren sitting there. There's food on the table, but he doesn't seem to have touched it—instead he's watching me. I pause, check my composure, and straighten my back a little more. "What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for you. Sanderson's going with Kev to the stockyard since the two of them only have one stylist, so I want you with me." Without waiting for an answer he turns for the elevators and I follow quickly. "All the victors, not just the mentors, will be helping to take care of your siblings or we'd drop from exhaustion. And Janus will join us in an hour or two, but I didn't think you'd want to talk with him right now."

"Definitely not," I mutter. I actually rather like Sanderson, and I trust Lewis. Interacting with Martin and Janus, though, will be painful.

Bren seems to sense my tender mood, and keeps his conversation light, factual. He's clearly trying to distract me from what my siblings are doing right now, and to my surprise it halfway works. By the time the elevator rings, he's already informed me that because I'm a mentor, I'll be interviewed if either of them make it to the top twelve, and again at the final eight because I'm family. I also learn that Petronius, the eternal optimist, is already designing my costumes for said interviews. And, apparently, the other victors have set up a schedule of who will be on duty when. I'm told to expect some sleepless nights because he and Sanderson also have sponsor duties and he doesn't trust Martin or Janus to do a good job on their own. I tell him I don't care about his schedule, that I plan to only nap next to the TVs until this is over, and he nods as if he expected as much, tells me that he's already asked for a cot to be set up in there.

We get off in an underground corridor that looks vaguely familiar . . . "Isn't this the same level as the training room was? And where I went when I won my Games? Before I was sent up on stage?"

"That's right," Bren says, leading the way down the hall. "Now you get to see what it's used for during the Games."

We pass a series of numbered doors, and he stops at the one marked "7," pushes it open. I find myself in a spacious room all lined with stainless steel. Lights shine from the corners, dim at the origin, but reflecting off so many surfaces that the whole place looks bright. One entire wall is composed of four gigantic TV screens, each showing the Capitol seal, while the others are bare. A large silvery table with several chairs pulled up to it stands in the middle, and there's another table with food and drinks waiting on one side. An Avox stands just inside the door, apparently assigned to see if we need anything. And maybe to spy on us. I can't quite trust these tongueless people, even if they're supposed to be victims of the Capitol too.

"We had to get special permission for Seven's mentors to share the room this year," Bren says, pulling one of the chairs around so that he straddling the back, resting his arms on top. I perch on the edge of another, ankles crossed, my stomach in knots. "Other districts' mentors aren't allowed in, though, unless we let them. And that almost never happens. We might all be victors, but we tend to stick to our own—it's hard to be friends with them when your kids might kill each other."

I'm not quite sure what I'm supposed to say, so I just nod. Bren turns to the TVs. "The ones on the right will show either Mareen or Kev. The one on the top left has the same view that the Capitol audience sees, but there are always cameras on our individual tributes so we can watch them all the time. They let us choose the angles and things too if we want."

"And the last one?"

"It's a bird's eye view of the arena; there will be glowing lights marking the trackers for each player so we can tell who's close to who. But they don't always give us more information than that—some years you're lucky and they let you see everything. Others you just know where the tributes are relative to each other. I guess the Games don't end when you leave the arena."

I don't allow myself to show much that last sentence bothers me. Bren turns to the table in front of us. He taps the top, the metallic surface shimmers, and the next thing I know I'm staring at what looks like a large, horizontal television screen. It's got a long list of topics arranged on it: food, weapons, medicines, clothing, tools. . .

I point at 'clothing,' intending to ask Bren a question, but the moment my finger lands on the word, the screen shimmers again. Now I'm looking at a screen full of pictures and names of every type of clothing I know and some I don't. Coats and earmuffs, underwear and socks, jumpsuits, swimwear, gas masks, glasses, watches—

"If you tap again it'll give you a list of the different sizes and qualities available," Bren says, tapping the label for 'Coats.' The list runs from thin jackets to heavy parkas complete with hoods, waterproof outsides, and camouflaging ability. Prices are arrayed to the right of each item and I nearly pass out just looking at them. This is the very start of the Games, and already the cost of a simple bright red jacket, one that doesn't even have pockets or buttons, much less a hood, could feast a family for a month.

Bren must see my face because he places a hand on my shoulder. "Don't worry. We'll get sponsors. I promise."

I nod and he glances at a digital clock set above the door. "Actually, that's where I need to be now. Signing up sponsors."

"Can I come?" I ask hopefully. Desperately to be honest. I don't want to be left alone. Not now.

Bren seems to hear the tone in my voice because he looks apologetic. "I'm afraid not, Liv. I did what I could, but they won't bend the rules. Sanderson, Janus, and I are the only ones who can sign sponsors up—in fact, I always need Janus's signature too before I can get Mareen anything, and I'm not allowed to get anything for Kev at all."

"But as their sister I might be able to persuade more sponsors to sign on! Or make the ones already there give more."

"I've thought of that." Of course he has. I try to stifle the rising sense of panic, of helplessness. "But when I tried to talk the higher-ups into it, they wouldn't agree. And I figured, with your siblings' situation . . . you didn't want to be seen as fighting the Capitol or Catiline more than you already have."

As usual, I have to admit that he's right. I sigh in defeat and he gets up. "I'll be back before the Games start. Try to get used to the equipment and things while I'm gone." I try. I really do. But as soon as the door's closed behind him, the calm act I've hammered together shatters. I slump on the table, head in my hands, trying not to think of the hovercraft ride to my arena, the way I was shaking as I got dressed, the adrenaline already spiking.

Mareen. Kev. I'm glad I made up with them, but at the same time I regret it. It might be easier to let them go if I had managed to stay convinced that they didn't care about me. I'm numb, drowning in dread. It's worse than anything I've ever felt except maybe in my own arena. No. Not even that compared because then there was something I could _do._ The only thing that compares was finding Dad.

It could be minutes or days until Bren re-enters and even then I still can't pull myself free. I don't move until he squeezes my arms gently and I look up. I realize that all of the television screens have changed, the Capitol seal gone to show a black screen with a large timer in the middle. A countdown.

Somehow, I shove the dread away, stare at the numbers at the minutes disappear. Ten minutes and they're in. Eight. Six minutes until they die. Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .

Down to the seconds now and I want to get sick, run, scream, beg Catiline to do something else, anything else, torture me, kill me, sell me, but I can't, it's too late . . . twenty . . . ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . . six . . . five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .

One.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the forty-ninth Hunger Games begin!"

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Hey y'all, I'm back! That story about Mareen's fainting may or may not have been based on real life experience...

Thanks, as always to readers and (especially) reviewers. You guys make my day, especially after pathetic Irish football games that almost make me want to transfer. Almost. EDIT: But at least we won against Navy! Woohoo!


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: **This chapter is rated M for violence and darkness. Also, if you're reading, I'm going to break down and beg for a review/criticism here; this is one of those scenes that _has_ to be right for the story to work.

Credit, as always, to EStrunk for her insightful edits, and to Shakespeare for some much-needed inspiration.

* * *

><p>Chapter 10.<p>

The screens light up together, too much information to process at once. The map on the bottom left is a glowing, tight cluster of lights, the main camera sweeps around the circle of tributes, the scared, fierce expressions. But my eyes are drawn to the other two monitors showing my siblings.

They're both dressed in single-piece, dark jumpsuits, with a strange hat—almost a helmet—on their heads. Their faces are pale but determined, and I realize that each is clenching their district token in one hand.

Behind them it's completely black.

As Templesmith's voice fades from the arena, there's a burst of light that whites out the screens. For a second I think that something's gone wrong, that they've accidentally incinerated the tributes, but the blinding flash clears and now I can see flames, torches, illuminating the arena.

Caves. The tributes are inside a circular cavern, the Cornucopia dead center, exits extending out like spokes on a wheel. Too-bright torches illuminate the walls, but the tunnels are dark, and a glance at the Cornucopia confirms what instinct told me—along with the usual weapons and supplies, there are light and fire-making tools scattered inside. I notice a countdown in the bottom corner of each screen.

Fifty seconds.

I turn my attention back to Mareen and Kev.

Kev is still staring around the cavern, the rough rock walls, the uneven floors, but Mareen's turning to the other tributes, watching them, sizing them up, trying to figure out who's where. Bren fiddles with one of the controls and the camera zooms out enough for me to see that Kev is four tributes to her left, and that on her other side is the boy from District 1. The one who got a ten. He's staring at her, watching her every twitch, and with the same instincts nurtured in my arena I see his plan. He's going for her. He's built like a wrestler and he doesn't need to bother with the weapons. He's planning to head straight for Mareen, snap her neck, crush her skull, crack her rib cage open barehanded—

Forty seconds.

Mareen's eyes lock with his and stick, like an ant trapped in tree sap. She's transfixed, her only movement her hand clutching tighter on her token box, and I can feel her panic building, see it in the way her face tightens, the way her chest starts to move faster with rapid, light breaths.

"NO! Mareen keep it together, damn it!" I don't care that she can't hear me, that there's nothing I can do, I'm screaming, launching myself at the screen, Bren grabbing me, no, it can't happen like this, not before she's even made it past the bloodbath—

Thirty seconds.

"Mareen!" Kev's somehow noticed the trouble she's in and his voice is enough to jerk her back. She tears herself free from the District 1 boy and starts looking around, checking the Cornucopia, the dark caves. Kev's staring at the tribute two spaces away from him, the girl from District 2, but his look is steady, calculating. He positions his feet. Towards the Career.

What can he possibly be planning? Sure, he can shoot a bow, and he's pretty fast, but he's not going to be able to take down a Career on his own!

Twenty seconds.

Now Mareen's turned back to the District 1 boy. He leers at her, but her face is set, steady.

"She's not—" I feel sick to my stomach as I watch. Was this their plan? Their whole brilliant plan? To go out in a blaze of glory, overpowered by the Careers before the Capitol could get the satisfaction of torturing them? "They can't, _they can't!"_

"Shut up, Liv!" Bren's voice is tight, but he's not looking at me. His entire body is tense, as if he's preparing to fight.

Ten seconds.

The other tributes position themselves to kill, fight, die, but Kev and Mareen are both unmoving, watching the Careers, bodies tense and ready. I can't move.

Five seconds. Four. Three.

Mareen's arm whips back, token still clutched in hand.

"_NOW KEV!"_

Explosions. Fire.

I'm screaming, Bren's shouting, you can't hear the gong going off because where the two tributes from District 1 and 2 stood there's a pair of gaping craters. Their tokens. _They just threw their tokens at the Careers' mines._ The other Careers are stunned, don't start moving in time but Mareen and Kev have launched themselves at the Cornucopia, along with several other kids who must have been warned, that they must be allied with.

Both from Three, both from Twelve, the girl from Eight, the pairs from Ten and Six and Five and—

"Impossible," I whisper. "They couldn't have allied with _everyone but the Careers."_

They're racing for the weapons, all of these scrawny kids, reaching them before the Careers can. Mareen seizes a short sword and whips around just as one of the Careers finally pulls herself together enough to come charging in. The girl dives, somehow grabs a knife that she uses to parry Mareen's blow, and the camera zooms in on Mareen's face.

She's not fierce. Not afraid. Not determined.

My blood runs cold as I recognize it. The monster now living in my sister's face.

Ecstasy.

* * *

><p><em>"Ladies and gentlemen, let the forty-eighth Hunger Games begin!"<em>

_Blinding red light hits my face and I desperately scan my surroundings, trying to think, to breathe, to remember the plan Dannis gave me last night. But the sight of the arena scatters all my half-formed thoughts._

_Red sand under my feet. Two suns, one a deep, rust color, the other bright orange, hanging low in an olive-green sky. Twisted, brown trees, strange thorny plants, and waist-high boulders. What looks like a single, white mountain in the distance, gleaming strangely, the air smelling of salt and sulfur. Heat. It can only have been ten seconds, but already I feel sweat starting to build, then gushing out of my pores._

_I shake myself. Focus. Fifty seconds left._

_The Cornucopia's a good fifty yards off but there's something close to my feet, just out of range of the mines . . . ._

_A long rectangular canvas, two feet long, one foot wide, piled with shiny instruments. I carefully don't move my feet as I bend closer and see scalpels, a surgical saw and knives, three different vials, and an array of needles._

_They gave me my weapon of choice. I look around, glance at the other tributes, and see that a weapon or pack is laid close to each. I think it's too nice for the Gamemakers until I realize—all the Careers have strengths in weapons. And the Gamemakers have just handed them the tools they need to kill with even more ease than usual._

_Forty seconds._

_I can't let them know that my specialization is medicine. The Careers will kill me if they see that it's something so weak. Somehow I need to get hold of another weapon, act out their plan, and still do what I need, and the panic is spiking now, making me so scared I can't seem to remember any of it._

_Thirty seconds._

Think._ What did Dannis say? No time to incorporate me into the scheme of chasing down the runners. He wants me and the girl from District 1—what was her name? not__ important—to guard the Cornucopia's supplies. He and the others will take what they want and then chase down the tributes who have already started running. I'm supposed to keep the Cornucopia safe from any stragglers who try to get something while they're occupied._

_Twenty seconds._

_I glance around, see Dannis standing only three tributes away. He catches my eye and grins, already positioned to sprint. I quickly copy his posture, trying to pull myself together. Come on. I know his plan, now what was I going to do to stop it? What was my plan? How was I supposed to use this to protect the kids?_

_Ten seconds._

_My eye catches on something, a set of knives lying at the edge of the Cornucopia. Can't think. Be ready to move. Kill. Fight._

_Die._

_The gong rings. I'm sprinting forward, scoop up the scalpel bag in one hand, reach the knives and grab them too, pull one loose to fight with. I reach the Cornucopia a split second behind Dannis who's already holding a spear. Out of the corner of my eye I see Kronos run in, seize a pack and take off, huge axe in one hand; the girl from 10's gold hair nearly flying as she sprints the other direction towards the white mountain. Most of the other Careers don't even bother coming to the Cornucopia with their weapons already given to them; they chase down the tributes like half a dozen hunting cats after deer._

_Dannis stops, picks up a dagger in his other hand, and salutes me. "Luck, Liv!"_

_He sprints away at the same time as I spin, find One's girl already at the mouth of the Cornucopia. Most of the other tributes have chosen to just take their free gift and run, but there's already a pair of bodies, the boy and girl from Twelve, lying in front of her, and as I run to join her, the boy from Six leaps out almost straight into her._

_All of time compresses into that moment. Have to stop it. Have to save him. Just a kid. No more than thirteen. I'm sprinting, but I can't get there in time. Just soon enough for his warm, sticky blood to gush all over my face as her sword sticks in his throat._

_A kid. Just a kid. A kid, and she murdered him._

_She yanks the blade out and turns to me, smearing blood all over her pants as she wipes it clean, still looking for another attacker. No sign of regret._

_I don't want to be sick anymore. She killed him and I couldn't stop it. But I can stop her from doing it again. If I can just work up the courage._

_"Took you long enough," she says. "Are you any good with those knives or are you just—"_

_My knife sinks into her chest._

_I jump back, draw another knife, but the pain's too much for her to think of fighting me. She tries to speak and blood pours from her mouth. She keels forward, lands on one hand, and then collapses, the blood leeching into the sand, blending with it._

_It was the plan. Kill the Careers so someone decent can win. And it's funny but I don't feel the guilt and horror and dread that hammered me whenever I thought of it. Something more than blood suddenly soars through my veins, singing as it leaps through my head and heart, dancing in my fingers._

_It's not adrenaline. That's been in my system for hours. It's not fear. It's not thought. It's like a drug. Some sort of rush, but instead of feeling disconnected, I've never felt so very in tune with everything around me. I'm powerful. Alive. Aware. I just killed._

_And, damn, I _liked_ it._

_I yank the blade free, shove her body next to the kid's. Six already had a weapon in his hand, a rapier. I push it between the ribs where my blade was, leave my own knife in his throat. My hands are shaking, but it's not with fear._

_I draw another knife, see Four's boy polishing off the girl from Eleven, and there's no one else to kill, no one else to chase down, but my pulse is a thunder, demanding another victim. I want—need—to push my blade through skin, to feel the sweet exhale as their body and soul come apart in my hands, to become alive as they die._

* * *

><p>"No, Mareen." My voice is a low moan. "No, please, not you. . ."<p>

The girl darts back, out of reach of Mareen's longer range weapon, and my sister follows, gliding over the cave floor, the killer taking over. It doesn't matter that she's never used a weapon before a week ago, that she faints at the sight of blood. It's not her fighting anymore. She follows the Career, a skull's smile on her face, swings her sword, the girl blocks again, and then the two of them are dancing, Mareen somehow in control.

I can't look. My eyes switch to Kev, who's gotten his hands on a bow, is trying to nock an arrow at the girl from One who's fighting Twelve's boy. Twelve is stronger, faster, but he's already taken down the boy from Four and he's obviously tired. Kev fires, but even at this short a range, he can't see in these caves. He just barely hits One in the leg, and she leaps back from her battle, charges after easier prey. My brother.

Kev shoots again, misses, he scrambles back, tries to block the sword with his bow but the blade slices straight through, sticks deep in his arm. His scream pierces through me worse than any injury.

Mareen hears it. She jerks away from her opponent, and the exhilaration on her face vanishes. Suddenly she's scrambling backward, confused, terrified, like someone who woke up from a nightmare and realized they're standing in the middle of a forest fire. The Career turns, runs towards the Cornucopia, and Mareen's spinning, racing for Kev, panicked, screaming his name, but there's just not enough time, just like that kid from Six, he's going to die and not a damned thing she or I can do about it—

Twelve jumps out of nowhere, lands on One's back, brings her to the ground. His pick-axe is gone, but he doesn't need it, he's got a hand on either side of her head and then he _twists._

I can't hear it, but I feel the exact, electric moment the neck snaps.

Mareen leaps in, stands over Kev with her sword, not the monster anymore but still trying to protect him. Twelve looks like he's going to join her when he sees his district partner and Eight's girl, now cornered by the Career girl from Four, the one Mareen was fighting before. Eight's trying to protect the child, but Four catches her, tosses the bigger girl against the rock walls and whips her flail into the kid's face, yanks it free. All there is left is a bloody, fleshy pulp collapsed into the skull like yolk in a broken eggshell. Four spins before Twelve can reach her and sprints off into the caverns, backpack over one shoulder, flail in hand. At the same instant, Two's boy breaks away from the four kids surrounding him, cutting a throat, stabbing a chest as he does. Ten's girl swipes her saber across the back of his calf, drawing blood, but he somehow still sprints free, following the girl from Four, and just like that the bloodbath's over.

The kids back up and start to lower their weapons. Kev's on the ground, alive or bled out, I can't say.

Mareen drops her weapon and sinks down, eyes blind with horror. Her hands twitch and then, almost on their own, start scrubbing themselves frantically. Her nails tear at her skin, ripping into it, as if peeling the blood-soaked flesh away will somehow make the monster disappear.

Somewhere, I hear a cannon go off.

* * *

><p><em>There's no warning, no lull or gradual shift. One second I'm snarling, exultant, brutal, and the next I'm starting to shake, staring at the blood soaking my body. At the two corpses at my feet.<em>

_I know what I did. But it's as if I watched it happen in any other Games, on TV back at District 7. That couldn't have been _me_ could it? Did I really just—just kill her? Did I really _like_ it?_

_No. No, it was an illusion. It had to be. Dad says that when a person's in too much pain, their body releases hormones—epinephrine, dopamine, norepinephrine—so it can keep functioning. That's all this was. I created the feelings as a defense mechanism so I wouldn't feel the horror of what happened. It's just my body lying to itself so it can survive for a little longer instead of being overpowered by emotion._

_Only I know that's a lie. It's gone, but I can feel . . . something . . . lurking under the surface. Like a rotten tree, holding a deadly swarm of tracker jackers inside._

_The others will be coming back soon. Already, the Cornucopia's quiet, the tributes running, the Careers chasing, but that won't last long. I need to collect myself before the bloodbath officially ends._

_I try to breathe, to plan, to think of something else, anything else besides what just happened, the blood on my hands, that I'll never be able to scrub clean, but I can't do it._

_Oh God, what have I done?_

_Somewhere, I hear a cannon go off._


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11.

On the Victory Tour, there was a very large clock in District 3, set on a tower in the middle of the town square. I ended up staying the night in the District and they put me up in the Justice Building. It was the most comfortable building they had, but it was also right next to the clocktower, and I remember waking up sometime in the night to the long, mournful toll it gave off for every hour, the awful solemnity the sound held.

The cannon shots sound like that. The screens with my siblings and the map of the arena stay the same, but as each round fires, the main screen, the one the rest of Panem is watching, flashes up a different clip of the tributes dying. With all the chaos, they show the deaths in the order of the districts instead of the exact sequence of events, although no doubt the slower moments of the Games will be enlivened by artfully arranged images of chaos, gore, and death from what the commentators are already calling 'a shocking turnaround.'

_One._ District 12 snaps the neck of the girl from District 1.

_Two._ Mareen's token is flung at One's boy. He barely has time to look horrified before flame engulfs him.

_Three._ District 2's girl doesn't even see Kev's token coming.

_Four. _The girl from District 3 goes down, throat slashed by Two's boy as he escapes.

_Five._ Twelve buries his pick-axe in the chest of District Four's boy tribute.

_Six._ District 6's boy goes down, gutted by the girl from District 1. It must have been before 12 reached her.

_Seven. _Two's boy is running towards the Cornucopia, darts around Nine's flailing sword, grabs it from her hand, and stabs her.

_Eight._ District 4's girl shoves Ten's boy against a cave wall—the angle's terrible, but I can tell he still hits head first.

_Nine._ Eleven's girl is stabbed in the chest by District 2's boy.

_Ten. _Twelve's girl tribute. Her face just . . . dissolves . . . under Four's flail.

Silence. I turn back to my siblings.

The cannon seems to have jerked Mareen back to herself. Her hands stop their clawing and she turns to Kev instead, pulls him into her lap. I know he's not dead, because there wasn't a cannon shot for him, but as Mareen turns him over and Bren zooms in on him, I can see that it's bad. The sword cut straight to the bone.

"What did I miss?"

Sanderson scrambles in, face white and drawn. "I got here as fast as I could. Is the kid still alive?"

"Holding on," Bren grunts. "Wounded though. Have to see if Mareen can pull him through."

"Come on . . ." I mutter, "You've seen wounds like these, Mareen, I know you have. Keep it together. Think."

She doesn't, though; her hands flutter around helplessly, not even thinking of tying a tourniquet. I hear an awful moaning from behind her and see that the girl from Eight has sunk to the ground, cradling the mutilated corpse of that little girl she tried to save. Most of the other kids simply look shell-shocked. Nine's boy heads towards the Cornucopia and after a minute the girl from Ten, the one who looks like Ames, follows him but the others are almost frozen.

This is no good. Most of these kids were the weaklings, the ones who weren't going to survive more than half an hour. Mareen gave them a fighting chance, but now they're so stunned that if any of the Careers come back they'll be easy targets. Hell, if any of them realizes this is a chance to eliminate the competition, they could wipe out half of the others before anyone tried to stop them.

Twelve sees it too. He leaves off examining the tunnels and marches back to the Cornucopia, his face set and grim under the blood splashed across it. He goes to Eight first, shakes her by the shoulder. Her wailing stops, but the look she gives him is pure agony.

"Come on," he mutters. "You can't do anything for her now. Help me take care of the others."

"I—I tried to help. To protect her, and she . . ."

Somehow he eases the body from her grasp, carries it to the side so it can be collected. Then he looks around at the ragtag collection of kids. A few—that girl from Ten, the boy from Nine, the girl he just helped—watch him, but most of the others are looking around aimlessly.

"Come on!" he barks, "You all want a chance at surviving? Get to work. You, you, and you!" He jabs his finger at the three people who are watching him. "Get the others to help out. Divvy it up so that some of you are on guard, others taking away corpses, and the rest sorting through what's in the Cornucopia."

They nod numbly and start to do as he asked. He, meanwhile, walks up behind Mareen and taps her on the shoulder. Her face jerks up and the cameras have a clear shot of the panic on her face.

"Is he still alive?" Twelve asks.

"Yeah, but I can't . . . I don't . . ."

"Your father was a doctor wasn't he? Wasn't that what they said about your sister last year?"

"He always taught Liv, not me!"

I smack my hand against my forehead because, even though I was technically the one in training, Mareen should know enough first aid to be doing _something_. Twelve looks skeptical.

"So you don't have any idea what to do for him?"

"I . . ." Mareen looks down at Kev, and this time the camera follows her face down. She stares at his wound, touches it gingerly, and that's when I see it on her face. Longing, violence, brutality. The monster is trying to escape its cage. The sight of the blood, the helpless boy under her fingers, the fragile life depending on her . . . .

It's not that she doesn't know what to do for Kev. It's that she's just gone insane minutes before, and she knows it can happen again. It's that she's already fighting off the desire to kill him, and she can't tempt herself any further.

"Tourniquet." Kev's voice is thin, but still strong. "Put a tourniquet on. That will keep blood from flowing until you can cauterize it. Unless they've given us medical supplies, and I doubt it after last year, it's the only way to keep out infection."

Twelve just killed two people, but he flinches at Kev's words. I don't blame him. Cauterizations are brutal—Dad refused to do them, always managed to come up with an alternative, but I know the theory and apparently Kev does too. Amputation's the only worse thing I can think of, and that only by a hair. As Sanderson zooms in on the wound, though, I can see that my brother's right. Cauterization will leave him open to infection eventually, but it's all an odds game. He'll get infected sooner if they try to stitch, he'll lose the limb if they tourniquet too long.

"How do we set up a fire?" Mareen asks. Twelve looks at her and she swallows. "I don't think they left us fuel in this cave, and even if they did, we'd need ventilation, wouldn't we?"

"Not a fire," Kev says. "Electricity. We need to run a current through a knife blade. It's cleaner that way anyways."

Twelve gives a humorless laugh. "Kid, I don't think they've given us anything more advanced than a crossbow."

"Yes they did. In the corpses. They haven't taken them away yet, I guess because of the problems in lifting them out through this roof, and they all have trackers in their arms, don't they? See if there are any kids from District 3 who could pull the battery out from one and set something up."

I'm not sure if the look on Twelve's face is horror at the idea, or surprise that Kev was smart enough to think of it. He glances at the kids behind him and sees District 3's boy still wandering around, blood dripping down his face. The girl is one of the bodies. "That's no good," he mutters, then calls, "Does anyone know how to handle electricity?"

The boy from Nine, one of the few who's still somewhat aware, looks up. "I help run a hardware store, 'mano. What you need?"

Twelve explains what he wants; Nine grimaces, but heads towards the corpses. The older boy turns towards the other kids, and his eyes land on the blonde who looks like Ames sorting through piles of equipment, supplies, and weapons. "You there! Girl!"

She spins, wary as a startled deer, but the first words out of her mouth are spunky. "My name's Chel."

Twelve ignores her. "Find something we can use for a tourniquet and a thick stick."

"What for?"

"So I can stuff them down your throat if you ask stupid questions! Just do it."

She scowls as he turns back to Kev and kneels down, easing my brother onto the ground. "Go help her out" he snaps at Mareen. She nods and runs off to the Cornucopia, eager to get away from the sight of blood, from its temptations. Kev hisses as the older boy jerks his arm up into the air, but I nod approval. The heart won't send as much blood to his arm if it's elevated.

Mareen arrives back with enough supplies for a dozen tourniquets and 12 sets one up with almost professional efficiency, ignoring the gasps of pain Kev gives as his arm is jerked around. While he's working, most of the others come to watch except for Eight's girl who's staying well away, sorting supplies, watching the tunnels. Twelve ignores them and starts trying to find whatever artery it is that's losing most of the blood. But he's not nearly as adept at this as with the tourniquet; his fingers are thick, dirty, and fumbling. Kev's face is white with pain and after thirty seconds, Mareen turns away, unable to watch. She walks over to join the girl from Eight and starts sorting through supplies. I notice that she refuses to touch any of the weapons.

"Here," Chel finally says when Twelve's hands pull back, bloody but no closer to fixing Kev's arm. "Maybe you should just put pressure on and—"

Twelve scowls at her. "I thought I told you to get a stick."

"I've already got one." She holds up what looks like the hilt of a pocket knife. "And I can't be worse at this than you."

_That_ doesn't get a good reaction from Twelve, but Chel squats next to him anyways. She looks so much like Ames, so focused, so calm, that I feel a glimmer of instinctive trust. She flinches when he whimpers, and her face is bone-white, but even though I can't quite see what she's doing, she must know something about medicine, because the blood flow drops almost immediately.

"I got it!" District Nine calls out from where he's standing. Twelve nods.

"Everyone else clear out! I mean it!"

They all do, reluctantly, except for Chel who's still trying to staunch the wound. Most of them return to the Cornucopia, picking up weapons and swinging them around, or sorting through the supplies, packing away anything useful. The shock's already wearing off, and I wonder how long it will take them to decide to start killing each other. I'm not fooled by this brief stint of humanity. They're still in the Hunger Games, and this alliance is far too large to last.

Twelve approaches with the knife, which is hooked up to a couple of wires—Nine follows behind, explaining how to use it through his strange, musical accent. Kev watches it like it's a live bloodmouth, and the girl's face turns green. Kev picks up the stick with his good hand, clenches it hard between his teeth.

"You'll want to look away, kid," Twelve mutters, kneeling next to him. I see Kev's throat bob as he swallows and obeys. Chel pulls her hands back, and the blood starts to flow again.

He's losing blood, but Twelve still hesitates. "After this, kid, we're square, you understand? You saved my life, I've saved yours. No more owing on either side."

Kev's got his eyes shut tight, but he nods. "Go," he grunts past the improvised gag.

* * *

><p><em>I stare down at Bahari's body, not bothering to fight the smile playing on my lips. I know I'm on every TV screen in Panem, and this sort of reaction is exactly what they want. The gift is humming through me like a drug, the same delight people get when they watch a hawk burst into flight or stand in the middle of a storm and laugh. But stronger. It's fear and glory, love and hate, death and life itself, concentrated into one single hit.<em>

_Three kills now. And the sensations only get stronger._

_Funny, though. No cannon yet. I look down at Bahari and see that his chest is still moving. Latrotoxin—black widow venom—only rarely kills adults, and even though I injected him with far more poison than the spider itself carries, it's a slow-working one. His face contorted with pain, muscles spasming, breathing rapid, but he could hold on for a couple more hours._

_I can't quite decide if I want to kill him or not, so I concentrate on other things for a few minutes. Removing his pack, sorting through his supplies. The food and water bottles go into my own pack, as do the iodine tablets, the lotion that we've discovered protects from sunburn, and his blanket. Despite the unnatural heat of this place, nights are frigid. I put the rest of his stuff down and move to the other dead tribute's body a few feet away._

_Seeing it makes the gift retreat slightly, rationality come back. He wasn't my kill, not technically—that honor was all Bahari's—but I'm still responsible. I feel the pain of his death, and it's enough to remind me that I'm still human._

_He was from District 3. Fifteen. The skin must have been fair once, but after a week living in this sun—or suns, I guess I should say—it's nearly the same crimson as the rocks around us, as the drying blood coming from his stomach. No wonder he couldn't run fast enough.__He seems to have been given camping supplies: a small canister of oil connected to foil contraption that might be a stove, one tiny metal pan, a couple of pocket knives, wire for snares, and a high tech sleeping bag that I swap out for the two blankets I'm carrying. It's lighter than mine and Bahari's, and the inside has this reflective lining that's made to shine heat back on you._

_I finish with the packing and look back at Bahari, still just lying there. The gift is nearly gone, and I'm feeling slightly nauseous instead. If I kill him now, it'll be all me, not the gift taking over. And I don't think I'm strong enough._

Come on, Liv. _I tell myself. _ Think.

_Dannis and Garnet, the only two Careers left, are waiting for us at the top of the canyon. I can't go back to them now. Three Careers dead, all when they were alone with me? They're not that stupid. Which means I have to get as far away from the two of them as I can before they try to hunt me down. This canyon extends a long ways, long enough for me to get away unseen, but how can I keep them from coming to see what's taking so long?_

_They need to think I'm dead. I told them this whole thing might be a trap, that the dead kid here might have been setting something up. If two cannons go off and neither Bahari nor I come back, they'll figure this tribute lured us in to kill us. And they won't come to check for fear of getting caught too. By the time they look at the sky tonight and see that I'm still alive, I'll be long gone._

_But that means Bahari has to die._

_I take out one of the knives and test it, cut my thumb on the edge. I hope—and more than half-expect—for the gift to take over at the prospect of more violence, but it stays firmly put. If I do this, it's on me. All me._

_I kneel down next to him, and can't _not_ notice how shallow his breathing is, so desperately clinging on to life. I can see his pulse twitching through his neck, fluttering like a bird's wings. That's where I need to cut. The carotid artery. With his body as weakened as it is, he'll be dead in less than a minute._

_The tip edges, lines up, is about to push in, when he finally looks at me. His muscles are trembling, but he somehow swallows and pushes sound out of his throat._

_"Please," he mutters, "I don't want to—"_

_"You're dying anyway." __My voice is soft with pity, and I'm doing everything I can not to cry. "This way's much faster. More painless."_

_"Don't care. Just . . ." He trails off into inaudible mutters._

_"I'm sorry." I'm doing it. I'm really going to do it. I have to. It's him or me, and if I'm going to win, if I'm going to make sure that one of the innocent kids survives this instead of the Careers, then it's got to be him._

_I think he grimaces, tries to strengthen his voice. "We were . . . allies."_

_I don't choose, not really. My hand just twitches, like it's disconnected from my body. The knife slits through the skin, blood begins to run. Watching more than actually controlling myself, I slice across to the windpipe, the other carotid, the internal and external jugular, and I can't feel anything at all. But the audience is expecting a show as the boy in front of me bleeds his life out, so I stand over his spasming body, wipe the sticky blood onto my pants. My voice is just a whisper._

_"Alliance broken."_

* * *

><p>I don't really notice much of the surgery. Once Kev manages to get a strangled scream past the stick, some part of my mind shuts down and I just zone out through the whole thing. It's only when Bren shakes my shoulder that I realize Twelve has not only finished his work but bandaged up the wound and helped Kev sit up. His face is drawn with pain, so white it's almost shining in the darkness, but he's managing to sip at the water Mareen brought him. He's always been the tough one in the family.<p>

Twelve checks that he's alright, then turns towards the Cornucopia and starts rummaging through the items there. Weapons, food and water, light, breathing apparatuses, makeshift shelter . . . it's all there, everything he might need to survive. He pulls out what looks like a pair of sunglasses, puts them on, and gives a pleased sort of grunt.

Most of the other kids have been watching him covertly as he worked on my brother, and now they don't bother to hide their staring as he shoves a few items into a bag, hefts a pick axe and turns away.

"Wait!"

Twelve turns towards Mareen, an eyebrow raised. She's staring at him open mouthed. "Where are you going?"

He sighs, takes off the glasses, and looks her in the eye. "Look. It was a good run. We took down the Careers, and now some of the underdogs have a chance. But I'm not a baby-sitter. And there are too many of us for this to work. I'm taking my chances and leaving before we all have to kill each other."

He looks at the girl from 8 and cocks his head a bit. "Coming?"

She looks confused. "You're asking me to ally?"

"You got the highest training score here. And . . . you tried to save my partner. I owe you."

She hesitates, looks around the group. "What about the others?"

"They'll have the rest of the supplies and weapons. They have as good a shot as anyone else."

She starts to walk towards him, then glances over her shoulder. Twelve rolls his eyes. "This is a one time offer. Take it or leave it."

"It's just . . . well, didn't _he_ get a better score than I did?" She nods towards Kev. "And Chel tied with me."

"He can barely walk right now, much less use a weapon." Twelve looks over at Kev and adds: "Sorry, kid. I did my best for you, but . . ."

"It's alright," Kev says. "Like you said, we're square."

"What about her then?" Eight nods towards Chel, who's clearly trying not to look too hopeful. "She's already wounded a Career and it looks like she can dress a wound better than you."

Twelve closes his eyes and scowls, clearly not appreciating the reminder. "Fine then," he snaps. "You, me, and her. Now come on, let's go."

The two girls scamper off down the tunnel, but he pauses at the cavern mouth and looks at Mareen. "I left you all the rest of the supplies. Destroy anything you're not taking with you; we don't want the Careers to get it. And this is the last of our alliance. If I meet up with anyone else from here, I'm fighting them, understand?"

The three of them disappear, down the tunnel and soon they're no more than a tiny cluster of lights on the map screen.

Kev grimaces, but slowly walks over to Mareen, lays a hand on her shoulder. She shuts her mouth and turns to him. "What now?" he asks.

Mareen stares at the ragtag group of kids, and I can read the thoughts going through her head as if it was mine. Misfits. Weaklings. Some are injured, most are still shell-shocked. They should break the alliance, distance themselves from these kids as soon as possible so they have a shot at surviving.

And then there's the monster. All these vulnerable targets . . . if she won't leave them for her own good, she should leave them so that they won't risk being killed by her.

But she's not like that. My sister's not me. Something firms in her face, and I know what she's going to say a split second before she does.

"We take them with us."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> In answer to the question I know you are all asking yourselves in your heart of hearts, YES! The Irish are now bowl-eligible!

Anyhow, I'm putting up a poll on my profile for who people want to win Mareen's and Kev's Games; I can't promise that it'll change the ending, but I'm interested to hear what other people think, so vote early and often.

Many many _many_ thanks to Lasgalendil for her medical advice; here's hoping I got everything right! If you're enjoying this fic, I'd highly recommend her work _Lamb to Slaughter_, a _Hunger Games_ fic with some intriguing twists. And I know I say this every time, but EStrunk deserves a huge thank you for her incredible beta-work; quite aside from the amazing work she does with this fic, her punctuality is also a much-needed inspiration for my consistent updates.

Reviewers are, as always, my own personal heroes. Seriously, if you're reading this and liking it (or not liking it), I'd love to hear from you! I don't bite, promise.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12.

Mareen tries her best, but the other kids are slow, scared, and weak. It takes nearly two hours for her to get all of them bandaged, packed, and armed with some sort of weapon. Six's girl has a gash across one leg, and although she whimpers and cries worse than Kev did, it's clearly nothing more than a flesh wound. There are four others: the boy from Nine who's unwounded and actually pretty useful, the boy and girl from Five who are just subdued, and the boy from Three, whose head is graze. It bleeds a lot, like head wounds always do, but it's not too serious. Much more dangerous is the way Mareen's eyes flicker whenever she glances that way, that dark fire reigniting, wanting—needing—to consume again.

Mareen finishes sorting the supplies and sets the kids to destroying or hiding the rest of the supplies in case the Careers get adventurous and try to come back. She's realized that they shouldn't burn it all—even if there's fuel, it would smoke them out—so now they're cramming everything into a small crevice, blocking it up with some of the loose rock so that it'll look natural.

"How many are left in the arena?" I ask.

"Fourteen." Bren points to the dark map, now lit up with scattered lights. "Seven in the big group, counting Mareen and Kev. Three in the group Twelve formed. Then the two Careers—the girl from Four and the boy from Two—make twelve. Those two are heading down the same tunnel, but Four left before him and they haven't met up yet. We'll have to see how they play out."

"And the other two?"

"The boy from Eight." Sanderson nods towards a glowing light moving south. "He got some supplies and is headed away from everybody right now. And the boy from Eleven, going in another direction too, but with nothing except a lighter and a water bottle. The two of them must have decided against joining up in the alliance."

I grimace. Objectively speaking, that refusal was probably the smartest thing to do. I mean, not that what Mareen and Kev pulled off wasn't stunning, but a better strategy would be to simply let everyone else fight the Careers, kill each other off, and then take down the battered and broken survivors from whatever side won. Not only would you be stronger, there wouldn't be any temptation to form stupid alliances afterwards. Maybe that just runs in the family, though.

"So what now?" I ask.

Bren shrugs. "Now we watch and wait. They'll put out the betting odds soon, and then Sanderson and I will be able to decide what our options are, how many sponsors we're likely to get, that sort of thing."

"And Mareen and Kev?"

"There aren't any guarantees," Sanderson says, "But I think they're alright for now. There's nobody but allies nearby, and I doubt the Gamemakers will want to spring anything on them for the next day or so. They usually do it to keep the Games lively and force the Tributes together. With everything that happened today, it'll be awhile before the audience starts to get bored. They've got time."

I nod and take a seat on one of the metal chairs, pull my knees up under my chin, watching as Mareen finishes adjusting someone's pack, and moves them out. The group takes one of the larger passages, but she has them keep close together. Even though the cameras can still see clearly, it's pitch black for the tributes once they're past the torches. The Cornucopia had four more pairs of those sunglasses, which Bren tells me are actually for seeing in the dark, but there are seven of them, and Mareen's too wary to light a torch in there. The three without are already on-edge; you can see it in the way their eyes swivel around, blindly searching for an attacker. She has them all holding hands to stay together, moving slowly, the ones with glasses leading the others.

I can't relax. Sanderson's logic is good. They shouldn't be in any real danger. But they're like a magnet drawing my eyes, and I'm somehow convinced that if I look away for one minute, they'll die. Which is silly, because even if I _am_ watching, there's nothing I can do.

There's a loud beeping noise from one of the TVs, the main one showing what the rest of Panem sees. The camera shot of Eleven walking through a tunnel is replaced by a large board with fourteen slots. Each of the tributes will get a rank, and the betting odds will be determined based on that. Of course, the Capitol being the Capitol, there are also bets being exchanged on what the rankings will be, and the sign stays up for a good five minutes to allow money to change hands.

"What were my odds?" I ask after a minute.

Bren shrugs. "Fourth. Your strategy was shocking and new, so you got huge numbers of sponsors, but I think the Gamemakers expected you to either break or give yourself away and get killed when you attacked the next Career. At this point, the rankings aren't really that accurate, so I wouldn't worry about Mareen and Kev."

I know Bren well enough to read behind the lines _there._ If he's telling me not to worry about their scores, it means that he thinks they won't be high. And, looking at it from an outsider's perspective, I have to agree. One wounded, the other fierce but obviously unwilling to make hard decisions, bogged down with a bunch of deadweight kids . . . .

But it won't be all bad, right? I mean, they both showed an amazing level of ingenuity coming up with the Cornucopia strategy, and it's clear that Mareen would have killed that Career if it hadn't been for Kev's injury. And they have all the supplies, where Twelve only grabbed a couple of things, and the remaining Careers have even less. That's got to count for something.

The TV beeps again, and I see the screen begin to fill with names, gender, and district numbers. It goes from the bottom up, probably trying to build suspense over who's number one. Fourteenth, thirteenth, twelfth, eleventh aren't either of them, and then—

Kev. Tenth.

Sanderson grimaces and Bren pats my shoulder as if he's trying to comfort me. "It's to be expected," he says. "And the kid's shown spunk. He still might get more sponsors than you'd think."

I shrug as if it doesn't matter while the count continues up. Ninth, eighth, seventh, and—Mareen. Sixth. Bren gives a pleased grunt. She's still behind both of the Careers, Twelve, his older ally, and that Chel girl for some reason, but it's the upper half of the tributes.

My eyes go back to the group of walking kids, Mareen and Kev and their pitiful band of allies. Is it wrong to wish for a cave-in to take out the half of the group trailing behind? The ones that are making more noise than a tree crashing to the ground in an empty forest?

"Liv?" Somehow I don't jump as Bren taps my shoulder. I don't take my eyes off the screen, but he must know he has my attention. "Sanderson and I are going to sign up sponsors. Can you and Lewis watch things?"

I nod, and more sense than see Bren turning to leave. He stops at the door.

"Oh. Just so you know, we'll come back with Janus. _Try_ to be civilized."

I give a non-committal shrug and Bren leaves. Lewis must have come in at some point, because I hear him shuffle over to the chair next to me, feel the heat radiating off his body as he sits down. But all I see are my siblings. Lewis seems to sense my need for quiet and doesn't do much except for watching the screens and flicking through the different gifts and prices on the table. His breathing is loud and wheezy, an old man's, and somehow the sound is comforting. It makes me feel like I'm not completely alone, not just a bodiless set of eyes forced to watch my siblings die.

An hour later and Bren still hasn't returned. Lewis gets up, makes himself something to eat—what time is it anyways? It's impossible to tell in these caves—but even though I sip from a glass of water he hands me, I ignore the plate he leaves.

Two hours, and it's clear Kev can't keep going for much longer. Mareen gave him one set of the glasses, but he's still stumbling around, clutching at his slung arm, and biting his lip to hold back the pain. I'm surprised he's been going this long. Mareen looks behind at him and sighs.

"Alright, everyone. We're going to set up camp here and—"

"I'm BA-ACK!"

I spin and my fist lands in Janus's face. He stumbles backwards, a look of such absolute shock on his face that it's nearly comical as he tries to stem the blood dripping from one nostril. "You've killed me!" he squeals, "I was just playing and now you've killed me with your. . ." Behind him, I see Bren put his face in his hands. I don't care. Acting 'civilized' doesn't extend to a Capitol freak who thinks it's funny to scream in your ear when you're watching your siblings fight to the death.

"Sit down or I really _will_ kill you!" I shout over him, refusing to show remorse. Because I don't feel any. Really. Not even with Bren glaring at me. I sigh. "Tilt your head forward not backward, you idiot, or the blood's going to drain straight into your throat! Bren, hand me that ice."

Bren obeys, filling a couple of cloth napkins with ice cubes from a water pitcher. I press one to the bridge of Janus's nose, the other on the back of his neck to lessen blood flow to his head. He winces at the pressure on his nose, but I don't move it. Honestly, it will help him, but his pain is a bit of an added bonus.

"Sponsors?" I ask once Janus seems to have decided that he's not dying right now. Bren shrugs.

"Not much better or worse than we expected. Mareen has enough that we could send her a pretty decent sponsor gift, although I won't unless she really needs it."

"And Kev?"

Sanderson hesitates. "I did the best I could, Liv. Really. But—"

"How much?"

Sanderson looks so guilty I almost feel sorry for the man. "Unless some sort of miracle occurs, we don't have enough to send him more than a token gift right now. He's just so small."

_And wounded. And traveling with a bunch of kids even weaker than he is._

"Well, we'll just have to try later then," I say, careful to keep my voice emotionless. I'm turning back to the TVs when Bren catches my arm and pulls me to the corner of the room.

"Why don't you go take Janus upstairs?" he says in a low voice, although Janus is so caught up in his dramatics I doubt he'd hear if Bren shouted. "You can call the medics once you're up there."

I scowl. "Why don't you do it? Or an avox? My place is—"

"Wherever your siblings need you most," Bren finishes. "And right now, they need Janus ready to help them out. You know he's childish—if you provoke him, he just might take it out on them sooner or later. You don't like it, don't punch the man next time."

There's not exactly much I can say to that, so I settle for giving Bren a really filthy look as I turn back to the purple-haired escort. "Come on, Janus," I say, my voice so sugary sweet it's a wonder I don't choke on it. "I really am sorry. Let's get you upstairs where a proper doctor can look after you."

"It's broken," Janus moans, "I'm going to have a crooked nose forever. . ."

"I think it'll look better like that," I lie. "It gives you a sort of rugged, adventurous look. And you can say that you were attacked by a victor and lived to tell about it—how many people get to brag about that?"

Slowly he stands up, leaning so heavily on my shoulder that my knees nearly buckle under his weight.

It somehow takes half an hour to persuade Janus that he can make it all the way to the elevators and onto our floor, most of it spent with him moaning about the unfairness of life and me apologizing over and over again, my fake smile coming closer and closer to a snarl every time. We finally get up there, and I call some Capitol medics in to look at him, even though by now the bleeding's long stopped and there's barely even a bruise. I think about suggesting cauterization, seeing as how it worked so well on Kev, but decide that it would be counterproductive.

Janus, _of course_ insists that I stay by his side the entire time, and there aren't any TVs in the room. I'm practically dancing with impatience, my mind conjuring up images of my siblings dead or injured that are darker than the caves themselves. By the time the medics have given up on calming him down and injected him with a tranquilizer instead, it's been almost an hour. I leave him sprawled across the couch, dash back to the room, fling the door open, convinced that they must be dead or wounded, that there's been a mutt attack or the Careers found them or—

Everything's calm and quiet. Sanderson's absorbed in the screen with Kev, Lewis and Bren are having a discussion, pointing at the map screen and shaking their heads. Lewis has some sort of diagram scribbled on a piece of paper. Martin's joined them while I was gone, his huge body somehow making the room feel much smaller than it is, eating a leg of what I think is mutton. I clear my throat as I step in.

"Everything alright?"

"See for yourself." Bren nods at the TV screens, where I see Mareen's set up a rough sort of camp, the kids all bundled into sleeping bags in a deep crevice nearly invisible from the tunnel proper. She's sitting near the edge, glasses on, clearly keeping watch. I convince myself that nothing's happening right now, then move to look at Lewis's paper.

"What are you all doing?"

"Trying to map the arena." Lewis passes the sheet to me. "Judging by the openings we've seen and the lights showing where the other tributes have gone, we think it's some sort of spider-web pattern. But there could be more details we haven't figured out yet. And, once the mutts and traps start getting activated, we'll mark those."

"How is that supposed—"

"Hush!" Sanderson says sharply, leaning in towards the screen. Instantly, the rest of us have turned to it as well.

It's Kev. He was lying in his sleeping bag, but now he gets out, puts on a pair of glasses, and walks over to Mareen. She wraps an arm around him, but doesn't turn her face from the passage. "Can't sleep?"

"No," he says. "My arm hurts too much."

"I wish I could give you pain meds, Kev, but there's nothing in the Cornucopia . . . ."

"And even if they could, they'd make me too sleepy. That's not safe if we have to run."

Mareen nods, and there's silence for several minutes. Kev leans on her shoulder, and I start to hope that the kid really is getting some sleep, but then he speaks up again.

"Are you alright?"

Mareen snorts. "Just try to go to sleep. You're the one with a ripped up arm."

"But you're the one who . . . I don't know. There's something wrong. What is it?"

Mareen's eyes are still fixed on the cavern, but the microphones pick up the strange hitches in her breathing. She's trying not to cry. "Do you remember watching Liv in the arena?"

Kev hesitates. "Yeah."

"We watched her kill. And I . . . I couldn't understand it. How she wasn't crying and breaking because of what she'd just done. How she seemed to enjoy it. I couldn't figure it out." Mareen pauses, and I feel like a knife is twisting inside my gut.

"I thought she must be some kind of monster."

The room I'm in is dead silent. I want to cover my ears, close my eyes, break the TV screens, but I can't move. It's not what Mareen's labeling me as, it's what I know will come next, the admission that she and I . . .

"And then I set off the Career's mines. And I felt it too. Kev there's something in me, something harsh and raw and brutal that says that, even though I know killing is wrong, it just feels so _right."_

For some reason, Dad suddenly pops into my head. The way he ignored me after I came back, refused to let Mareen and Kev near me, committed suicide three months later. For once I'm glad he isn't here. If having me do what I did drove him to that, I don't know what he would have done if he saw Mareen going this way too.

Mareen pulls her arm back, as if she wants to edge away from Kev, and he just hugs her tighter. "That's why you couldn't help my arm, isn't it?" he asks. "And why you . . . is it why we're helping all these others? Because you want to prove to yourself that you're still a good person?"

"Yes." Mareen's voice is a whisper. "I feel this thing inside me that . . . I called Liv a monster, but the truth is there's one living inside me too."

There's a long pause. "So what are you going to do?"

"I don't know," Mareen whispers. "I just don't know."

That's the question isn't it? Does just having a monster in your head make you a monster too? Or is it what you choose to do with the monster?

Silence. Silence for so long that the main camera, which had been focused on their conversation, drifts away to the kid from District 2. I can see Mareen thinking over the question, though, trying to discover the right answer when there isn't one. Finally, her back straightens.

"I'm going to fight it," she whispers. "I'll die before I let it make me a person I don't want to be."

* * *

><p><em>One.<em>

_Two._

_Three._

_Four._

_Five._

_Six._

_Seven._

_Eight._

_Nine._

_The cannon finally stops. Nine deaths. A relatively light bloodbath if I'm honest, especially considering that four of them are dead in front of me—the set-up must have given the kids a better chance than usual at getting away from the Cornucopia. But it means that I don't have much time at all before the other Careers come back, and I've got to play this story out right, or I'll be dead in minutes._

_District Four's boy is the first one back. He takes one look at the corpses in front of me, the kids from 12, the Career girl, the boy from 6 at my feet, and arches an eyebrow. "What happened?"_

_I shrug, bend down and retrieve my knife from where I pushed it into Six's corpse. I hope he doesn't notice my shaky hands, although he'd probably just attribute it to nerves. "The kid got lucky. He stabbed her before I could reach him, and I put this through his—"_

_The girl from District 2, Garnet I think her name is, joins us at that minute, and I have to restart the explanation, only to be interrupted by Dannis, and then the boy from District 1, who looks like he's ready to snap my spine even when I give him my 'story.' He seems to believe me, though. All of them do, and it's a good thing for me too._

_Finally I turn to them, desperate to get the story off me and the dead children. "What about you guys? Who took down who?"_

_"I got two. Both from 8; they seemed to be allying, which just made them easier to follow." Garnet grins as she says it, proudly, like girls from my district would talk about winning a race or getting high marks in school. "They couldn't fight at all."_

_"One for me," District 4's boy shrugs. "A girl. I don't remember what district she was from."_

_Dannis gives a sheepish grin. "I went after that girl from Ten but she, um, got away. I thought she was so small I'd have time to come in and grab a knife, then follow her, but she was _fast._ I got her supply pack though, and I doubt she'll last long without it."_

_Garnet punches District 1's boy on the shoulder. "Two kills for each of us? It looks like you and I are the main competition!"_

_He just shrugs, still staring at his partner's body. I wish he wouldn't do that. It looks like he's about to cry and I don't want to feel guilty. I don't want to remember my knife plunging in, ripping out, the heat that flooded my body like hunger, like desire, but sweeter and stronger and—no. I can't think of that. I just have to keep moving, keep acting, until I have time to deal with it._

_Luckily District 1 jerks and shakes his head at that moment, and we set about sorting through the Cornucopia, moving off a little ways so the hovercraft can pick up the bodies. Most of the supplies is desert survival gear, although there's enough stuff for colder weather that we take the hint and realize it won't all be sunny days for us._

_I move through things in a daze, Dannis directing us. We sort, organize, arrange packs, and somehow before I've quite figured out how, we've set up camp, are eating and talking and laughing around a huge campfire, and I'm doing it too, acting like there's nothing wrong, acting perfectly, but I can't even remember what it was that Garnet said to me five seconds ago, or what it was I just swallowed. Light, colors, meaning, all swirl around me and I'm floating on top rather than absorbing anything._

_Am I in shock? My body's not responding like it. I know that. But even though my behavior is perfectly normal, my mind's deadpan. It's like the opposite of going unconscious. Higher functions work, just not the basics. I'm able to talk and laugh and move with perfect normalcy, but it takes a monumental effort to remind myself to keep breathing, to sit up and keep my eyes open._

_"So what now, Dannis?" The boy from District 4, Bahari, finally asks. Dannis looks around at the arena, the strange suns. My internal clock's telling me that it's only a little ways into the afternoon outside, but their rhythm must be different because it looks like we only have an hour of daylight left. Dannis shrugs._

_"We don't have anything to make lights with or see in the dark, unless you count firewood. I think we should camp here, then start heading out for the others in the morning. If the Gamemakers wanted us to hunt at night, they'd have given us equipment for it."_

_That garners nods of agreement from the others. My mind blurs again in that strange way it did before, and somehow it's imprinted on my mind that Dannis will wake me up when it's my turn to watch. I vaguely notice the anthem being played and nine faces being shown and then I'm pulling out a sleeping bag, curling up inside, a blanket rolled up under my head like a pillow and I can finally _think.

_I killed. That's the one thought that stuck in my head, the one thing that didn't get lost in the blur. As soon as I stare it in the face, though, everything else floods back in. Killing District 1, the look on her partner's face, the children I couldn't save, the blood and that pleasure, that sick _sick_ pleasure that burned through me as I watched it happen. As I did it._

_I don't even notice the tears pouring down my face at first, and when I do I'm glad that I'm buried in my sleeping bag where the cameras won't catch it. I remain silent, but they just won't stop, the pain and the memories, rising up again whenever I think I've finally finished with them._

_I killed. I killed, and I enjoyed it. Dad always says that when something bad happens, when a patient gets a horrible diagnosis or you realize there's no way you're going to get the medicines you need in time, you have to just keep moving forward. That's what I've got to do. Figure out some way to deal with it, and then keep going. I've got to keep going._

_My hand clenches on something, and I look down, realize that I'm somehow clutching the roll of medical equipment that they gave me. Numb, my mind working on auto-pilot, I open it. The firelight is shining through the sleeping bag just enough for me to see their silhouettes._

_Scalpels. A surgical saw. Short bladed knives. Syringes. Somehow I'm comforted by them. The medical equipment, the tools I need to heal people. If I can use brutal instruments like these to save lives, can't I do the same with my plan? Can't I be brutal without turning into the monster I felt earlier?_

_I pick up a scalpel and something rolls out; I catch it with one hand and slowly hold it up to the dim light. A glass vial. One of three. Well, what else would I need a syringe for? Medicine like this, manufactured by the Capitol . . . Dad is always saving money for it, lamenting that he can't get more. And when he does get it, he hoards it, never more than a few drops of the morphling for a patient, a dab of the antiseptics. It's hard to believe I have three whole bottles to use._

_Suddenly I have to know what it is. I wipe my cheeks, make sure I'll look fine if a camera decides to focus on me. Then I wait for several long minutes, breathing deeply, taking my pulse, making sure that my body's calm. Only when I'm sure that I'm under control do I edge my way out of the sleeping bag, the medicine cupped in one hand. It has a paper label wrapped around it, and I lean in close, eyes straining in the firelight and shadows._

Black Widow Venom.

_Revulsion jolts through my mind, and I nearly lose control of my face. But underneath, there's more than just fear, there's some strange stirring in my gut__. . ._

_Anticipation._

_No! I need to be rational, and whatever this—this _thing_ is inside of me, rationality doesn't exist when it's in control._

_I close my eyes, clench my fist around the bottle, digging my nails into my palms until I'm sure that it's me thinking and not the strange alter-ego I saw today. I should have expected this. Why didn't I? Did I really think the Capitol would give me a pack of supplies so I could _heal?_ Painkillers and antibiotics are as useless to these Games as my innocent surgeries and stitches. These instruments, made for healing and civilization, aren't going to be enough to save a life. Not unless they're weaponized, their life-giving abilities turned completely to destruction._

_Like me._

_I feel nausea rise in my stomach, some small voice crying in the back of my head that it's not right, that this can't be what I'm supposed to do. I push it away, use the same mental exercises I use to shut off disgust when I watch a surgery. Now's not a time to be emotional. I need to dissect this problem._

_I'm not enough as I am. Livy Caldwell, the sweet doctor-in-training from District 7 . . . what a joke that I thought I can ever be the killer actress, the girl brutal enough to bring down the Careers. I need to be more. Just like these scalpels. And I know what that means. What I need to unleash._

_Maybe it's not a monster. Maybe it's a gift. Maybe . . . I've never been superstitious, but if I was given a gift, it has to be for a reason, right? And there's only one thing that could be. So that I can defend the kids. So that I can find the strength to do whatever I have to to make sure it happens. And that's a good thing, right? When kids will die without it, how can it _not_ be a good thing?_

_And what choice do I have?_

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Yeah Irish! Just two games left, and we've won seven so far! Now it's just the Holy War versus those heathens at Boston College and Stanford. We can do this!

Oh, and I'm sure most of y'all already know this, but I'd feel bad if I didn't mention that there's a fancy schmancy new Hunger Games trailer out. Here's hoping the movie's as good as the trailer.

Thanks so much to EStrunk for her very real help in strengthening this chapter, and to reviewers for motivating me to update! Love y'all!


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note**: I don't normally do music recommendations, but in this case, I'd highly recommend Hans Zimmer's theme from the movie _Tears of the Sun_; I basically had it on replay the whole time I was writing this chapter. The movie's also very good so long as you have a strong enough stomach.

Thanks to the amazing EStrunk for her beta-work!

* * *

><p>Chapter 13.<p>

_I've somehow managed to avoid Bren through all of it. The parties, the crowning, the interviews, the times with Petronius, getting my costumes for the victory ceremonies. He stops in to see me, of course, but I don't let him catch me alone, and it clearly frustrates him. But when we get on the train, there's nowhere left to run. He follows me to my room and pounds on the door._

_I refuse to answer._

_"I know you're in there, Liv, now talk to me! I _will_ break down this door, I swear!"_

_I feel the rage burning, building. Not quite the monster, but it's similar. I force it away. Not again. Never again. I won't give in to it again._

_The knocks turns to a loud thud and I can see my door shuddering from where I sit on my bed. He's kicking my door in! I start cursing as I walk over and yank it open. "Go aw—"_

_I'm on my back, my stomach crashed against my spine. Bren's leaning over me, cradling me against him as I suck in air. Where the hell did he learn to kick like that?_

_"Liv, I'm so sorry, I didn't pull back in time, and it—"_

_"Get out." My voice is a choked whisper instead of the shout I want. I twist free of him__and fall onto my elbows, jerk back when he tries to come near me. Bren pauses._

_"Liv, let me help you. I know what you're going through, the guilt and the anger. It's normal after—"_

_"You know?" I snarl. "You damn well should! You _caused _it!"_

_"Excuse me?"_

_"You made me live! Made me turn into this—this victor, this killer, when I should have been dead! I _wanted_ to die!"_

_He stares at me, and his eyes soften. The hard, laughing mask he shows the rest of the world slowly fades away into something else. One that nearly makes the monster come out again. How dare he, how _dare_ he look at me like I'm something human after everything I've done?_

_"I don't want your help or your pity, Bren Nellon, I want you to get the hell out of my life before you make it worse than it already is!"_

_"I'm not leaving you."_

_"Why not? Do you want to destroy what's left of me? Was killing your opponents and mine not enough—do you need to bring me down too? I told you to _get out!"

_Something flashes in his eyes. Not anger—I want anger, but it's not there. No, it's hurt and pity and understanding. I hate him more than ever for that. "Fine then," he mutters, standing. I have to hunch over with my aching gut, but I push myself up too. I won't let enemies see me weak._

_And I won't let Bren be anything but my enemy after what he's done to me._

* * *

><p>"No, damn it! NO!"<p>

Bren jumps from his cot at my shout, knife in hand. "Liv? Is Mareen—"

"Those two—two—" I can't think of a word bad enough. "_Careers_ just teamed up! And they agreed to go hunting. _Hunting_. You _know_ who's going to be first on their list! They're going after—"

"Liv," Bren sheathes his knife and folds his arms. "Calm down. You knew this would probably happen."

"But I'd hoped . . ."

"You'd hoped what? That they'd kill each other off? Really, Liv, for such a survivor, you're blinded by things an awful lot."

I just huff and Bren stares closely at my face. "Have you gotten any sleep tonight?"

"Of course not. With you asleep here, Mareen and Kev need someone to watch in case there's something important happening."

"And what are you going to do if there is? Fight for them? Warn them? You aren't even able to send them gifts since you're not an official mentor."

"I can watch out for them at least! Which is more than you're doing, sleeping back here!" I don't like being reminded of my helplessness. Bren, contrarian that he is, refuses to get offended when all I want is a good fight.

"Liv, this is a different battle from the arena. We're much more limited, and that means we have to be keeping ourselves at full strength for when we're needed. Refusing to sleep will just end with you hurting their chances. I'll take a turn watching, you take the cot for a little while, alright?"

I give him a flat stare. Bren may be stubborn, but there are a few things even he can't convince me to do, and giving up my vigil is one of them.

After a minute he sighs. "Look, if you won't sleep, at least eat something."

I shrug and Bren turns to the Avox, places an order for food. Then he turns to me and takes a seat at the table, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"Anything else happen while I was out?"

"Eleven nearly broke his back falling down a slope three hours ago. Looks like he ended up with just bruises, though, and found a source of water at the bottom. The rest of them went to sleep awhile back. Oh, and I've been working on Lewis's map of the arena."

Bren raises his eyebrows, and I pull out the paper, smooth it on the table. "I think he's right, it seems to be a spider web shape. And if that's true, there should be other passages here, here, and here. If the Careers move in the right direction, following these passages," I trace the route with one finger, "they'd only need to cover two miles before they reach Mareen's group."

"True, but the odds are . . . slim, to say the least," Bren says. "They'd have to take the right turns at at least three different intersections. That's, what, a one out of sixty-four chance?"

"I didn't know you were so good at math."

"There are a lot of things you don't know about me, Liv."

I flush for some reason. "Well, the odds are a little higher. For example, I doubt they'll backtrack, so that eliminates some of their options. And the Gamemakers might decide to force the groups together soon, in which case—"

"I told you, the Gamemakers will be trying to keep them _apart_ if anything for now—they try to keep the number of tributes between ten and twelve in the first two days so the audience can see who's strongest. They'll let the Careers find the single tributes if things get slow, and it's likely they'll try to break the alliance up somehow, but if they decide to force a battle between large groups, it's going to be a big enough event that they'll want to have a nice long lead up to it."

The Avox arrives and sets out our food, then retreats back to his corner. Bren pours himself a drink, spoons out a large portion of the beefy stew into two bowls, then raises an eyebrow at me as I just stare at my hands.

"Come on. I can understand not wanting to sleep while they're in danger, but refusing to eat is just stupid. Here." He pours me a glass of water, stirs a couple of spices into one of the bowls. "Eat this or I'm going to tell Janus you want to sit next to him tomorrow."

"You wouldn't—"

"Oh wouldn't I?"

I decide I really don't want to risk finding out. I shove a spoonful of stew into my mouth, glaring at him the whole while. He rolls his eyes.

"You're acting like a child, you know."

"Forgive me for being human," I mutter. As the food hits my stomach, I realize that he was right and I really am hungry. The knowledge does nothing to improve my temper, but I do take another big bite.

Bren shrugs. "We're victors. Not human. I'd think by now you'd know the diff—"

The Avox walks over and hands him a note. Bren looks down at it and I swear his face pales for a second, then hardens. "I've got to go."

"What? Why?"

He doesn't answer, just stands up. I do too and my body chooses that moment to feel dizzy. I have to catch myself on the table and, of course, Bren sees it.

"Liv, I'll call Sanderson down here, but you really need to get some sleep."

"I'm fine." I ignore the drowsiness, focus on my anger at him. "And why do you need Sanderson? Where are you going?"

"It's something importa—"

"Don't give me that! My siblings are in the arena and you up and decide something _else_ is more important?"

"Yes."

I don't know why, but for some reason the flat, almost dead look in Bren's eyes makes me pause.

"Well then, what is it?"

He refuses to answer. And somehow that little denial makes the pieces snap together through the fog that's now clouding my brain. "It's Catiline, isn't it? He's made . . ." I struggle for a euphemism, ". . . other arrangements for you tonight."

Bren looks me straight in the eye and shrugs a little bit, as if he doesn't really care that I know. Only long experience lets me see past that. "I guess you're not so blind after all." He steps towards the door.

"Why do you do it?" I blurt out. He stops dead.

Inch by reluctant inch, he turns to face me again. The look in his eyes is so strange. Harsh, but rimmed with something very much like desperation. I make myself continue. "It's just that . . . I didn't think about it until now, but your father died last year. And you don't have siblings or anything. So why do you still obey orders? Whose life is so important that you're doing this for Catiline?"

His face closes off into a mask that even I can't read. I take a step towards him, and suddenly the world tilts and I'm tripping over my feet, and he's catching me by the elbow, leading me towards the blankets. My feet are shuffling, my mind too clouded now to try and protest or fight him.

"I'll call Sanderson," he promises, laying me down. "Just sleep, alright? I'll be back when you wake up."

I try to glare at him, but realize that my eyes are closed. "You . . . drugged . . . me," I accuse.

"Good night, Liv." My senses are too far gone to hear him leave.

My last thought is that he never answered my question.

* * *

><p><em>It's early morning when I leave for the small house in town Dad keeps for operations. Still dark out, in fact. But I know no one will bother me as I make my way over to it—I'm the victor. Even the thugs and desperate in District 7 are respectful to me. I don't know if it's fear or genuine gratitude for the extra gifts and food the District's been showered with these past few months, but they leave me alone.<em>

_I knock on the door but there's no answer. Well, there shouldn't be. Mrs. Britain isn't scheduled to be over for another hour, so Dad's probably in the back rooms, getting ready. I slip in and sigh, feel myself automatically relax._

_I know Dad is worried about me coming back to surgeries. He has a right to be, considering everything that happened. But this . . . I've needed this. Needed to remind myself that I can still have a chance at rebuilding myself. And that maybe, just maybe, there's a chance that he'll forgive me. Sure, we're stiff and awkward the few times he's seen me. And yes, he's kept Mareen and Kev away from me ever since we met at the train station, refusing to move in with me to the Victors Village. But the operations, the careful work, the close cooperation . . . how can we be anything but father and daughter if we still share this?_

_The house is dark, and I glide through by feel and memory. Dad hasn't moved anything since he bought the place, back when I was seven, and it only takes a minute of fumbling for me to reach the room where we operate. No candles and log fires for this room; Dad somehow convinced the District to pay for electricity and a private generator when he bought the place. I flick on the bright white lights and see him there, lying out on the operating table. His hand's clutching one end of the scalpel._

_The other end is driven into his heart._

_I don't know what it is—some last vestige of the monster, some survivor instinct maybe—but I feel numbness settle in my mind, draping over it like a blanket. I walk up to his body, stretched out so carefully as if he's waiting for me to save him._

_I can't think, only analyze. Punctured aorta. Death fast but not instantaneous. Not quite painless. Hand splashed with blood, but otherwise clean, covered with a latex glove in fact. He'd scrubbed up as if it was an operation.__There's something in his other hand._

_I lift it, still stuck in that strange sense of unreality, and see a piece of paper. I pull it free, hold it up to read the two words scribbled on top._

Forgive me.

_I don't have any clear memories, I only know that I'm turning, tripping, running. Panicked, sobbing, screaming his name over and over again, back to the Victor's Village, sinking to the ground, tearing at my face, my hair, my eyelids, because if I tear through them, if I can just reach my eyes and rip them out, maybe what I saw won't be true and I won't have done it, won't have driven him to—_

_"LIV! Liv _stop!_"_

_Bren's there and he's holding my arms back, stopping the scratches from going bloody, and I know that it's not his fault, that it's never been his fault no matter what I said. He can't be blamed because it was me, all me, and there's nothing to save me any more, nothing worth forgiving, worth redeeming. I killed him, I killed him as surely as I did Dannis and Ames and Kronos and—_

* * *

><p>"Wake up! Liv, wake up!"<p>

My eyes burst open and I'm gasping for air, tangled in the blankets. Bren's bent over me, holding my wrists. "It was a nightmare, Liv. That's all."

Slowly he releases me, and I notice that my face hurts. I reach up and touch it, realize that Bren has, once again, stopped me from gouging my eyes out. I unwrap the blankets enough to breathe and sit up.

"Not a nightmare," I mutter, "A memory. Of when I found . . . when I found . . ."

Bren gives me a sympathetic look and I shake my head. I can feel the drugs still in my system but they're bearable now. I can decide whether or not to obey them. I stagger upright and pour the water from one of the pitchers kept in the room over my head, as if it will somehow wash away what I just relived.

_"Never_ drug me again," I growl, fury building like a shield around me now that I can think straight. I shove my dripping hair from my forehead. "It just made me stay asleep through that."

"Then maybe you should go to sleep on your own sometimes!"

"After that? I don't want to sleep again!" My guilt. My father. _Forgive me._

Bren's face darkens, and I turn to Sanderson before he can make a retort. "What's been happening since I was out?"

"Liv—"

Sanderson straightens, obviously glad he no longer has to be witness to the two crazy victors snarling at each other. "They woke up about an hour ago, and Mareen managed to get them on the move pretty fast. The Careers are headed towards Eight's section of cave, so we'll have to see how that goes. Eleven looks like he wants to stay put, which makes sense given that he's alone and near water, and Twelve's group looks like they're figuring out the shape of the arena. One thing, though. The water level of the streams? They're rising."

"Liv, I—"

I ignore him. "Are they flooding them out? It'd be a good way of ensuring that the Games have plenty of tension. And if they set up the arena right, it would be a way to steadily drive everyone together."

"Damn it, Liv, listen to me! After everything I've done, don't I deserve that much?"

I turn to Bren and see that he's nearly shaking. "Like what, Nellon?" I snarl. "What have you done? Drugged me? Forced me to live so I can watch _this_ happen to my family? Helped me be a monster? Oh, yes, you're my hero, aren't you?"

"You don't have a clue do you?" Bren shouts. "I don't know why I bother, you blind fool!"

_Blind_. The word brings back our conversation from a few hours ago, and suddenly I'm rocking back on my heels, the words piecing themselves together for me. Not so blind as I look. A life so important that he'd obey Catiline. Everything he's done for me. Don't have a clue. Could Bren really have been forced into . . . .

I open my mouth, and before I can speak Sanderson clears his throat.

"I think you two need to see this."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Hopefully no one minds an early update; I'm flying back south for Thanksgiving tomorrow, so I thought I'd get this done now.

The Irish only have one more game before the end of the regular season! We beat Boston College, now let's just see if we can do the impossible and take down a ranked team!


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note: **I got a question on this, so I just want to clarify in case any of the other readers missed it too; Catiline is Snow's right hand man, the one in charge of the Games. Rumor has it the two are fighting each other for power right now.

A thousand thanks to EStrunk for her wonderful beta-work!

* * *

><p>Chapter 14.<p>

Empty space. They've emerged into a cavern instead of the tunnel.

That's all I can see at first, and for a second I wonder why that's important enough for Sanderson to draw our attention to it, unless he just wants to interrupt the fight. Then I realize that the kids have all taken off their glasses, let go of the hands, and that the background against the cameras is lighter than before. There's a funny roaring noise crackling through the speakers.

The main camera's been zoomed in close on their expressions, but now that it's clear everyone's watching, it slowly pans out and I can see the light is coming from below, almost at their feet—

Fire.

There's a . . . a . . . I don't know how to describe it except to say that the floor they're on is like a shelf—only a few feet away, it drops into a cliff and both the face and the distant ground below, are covered in flame. The kids' faces are clearly illuminated now, dirt smudged and glistening with sweat, staring at the sight in front of them as if entranced. The heat must be incredible, but it doesn't seem to be giving off smoke and I can't see any sign of fuel. Definitely synthetic.

Kev shrinks away, but I can see Mareen's eyes shining, hungry almost. It's that same strange attraction I've seen people get when they watch lightning dance across a storm black sky, or one of the giant forest trees being felled, the desire for the sheer _power_ they see in front of them.

But in Mareen, it's much more dangerous.

The flames roar up, propelled by the Gamemakers to give a display. They're no longer just lining the surfaces, they're burning off the air itself, forming shapes, pillars. The other kids back off, but Mareen edges forward, straight to the precipice, inches from the flames. Shudders are running through her, tremors of power, temptation singing to her, washing her like waves, like the sweat pouring down her skin.

"Mareen!" Kev calls from the back of the cavern. His face is flushed from heat, but his voice is weak and shaky and I realize he's terrified. "Come on, Mareen, let's get out of here!"

"Hush!" Something flickers in Mareen's face. Her voice is hard and impatient, yes, but for a split second her eyes unlock from the flames, and she seems uncertain, realizes that something's wrong. Then she refocuses, dismisses Kev from her mind.

He steps forward, carefully not looking at the edge, standing as far back from it as he can while reaching her, and taps her shoulder. She shrugs him off.

Kev's face firms, and in one quick movement he grabs her shoulder, spins her, and slaps her hard in the face with his good hand.

Mareen lashes out, seizes him by the arm, yanks him around and forward. Kev goes limp, clutching for something, any sort of hold, but he's at the cliff's edge, toes barely scraping the rock, not falling only because of Mareen's hold, his face locked in a silent scream, and I can see the monster there, dancing in her eyes, thrilled with this, so alive—

The flames soar behind them.

* * *

><p><em>"I'm so tired of <em>red."

_Four's boy, Bahari, dribbles a pebble in front of him as he walks. He's coordinated enough that he doesn't need to look down at it, which is a good thing. Even though we're the Careers, even though we have the weapons, supplies, and strength, every one of us feels exposed and vulnerable in this open, alien arena. It should work the other way—we should be reassured that we'll see anything coming long before it reaches us—but it doesn't. It's hard to believe we're on a giant stage, that there's any sort of world outside of this vast red landscape and the single mountain peak in the distance. This is all there is. The Careers. Our prey. Myself. The gift. The rest of Panem doesn't exist._

_It doesn't help that we're down to four in our little alliance. Myself, Dannis, Bahari, and Dannis's district partner, Garnet. There are still ten tributes alive, and only three of them are proper Careers at all—it's as if there's a jinx on them this year._

_Of course, it's actually that I've killed the others, but they don't realize that._

_I feel Dannis's eyes on me as we walk, and wonder again what could possibly be going through his head. The boy's a mystery to me, one I can't waste the time to figure out. Because every time I try, that hungry stirring rises up in my gut. My wariness, curiosity, and even the slight hints of friendship I feel for this boy won't stop me from killing him when it comes time. The gift I was given will see to that._

_Because I'm realizing now that it is a gift. The horror, guilt, and pain I first felt when I made my choice—nearly a week ago now—have slowly eroded like water undercutting a stream bank. This gift allows me to do what I need to, when otherwise I'd have broken and died. I still hate it, even fear it a little, but mixed with that is a grudging gratitude._

_Even now, though, it's trying to burst loose. I feel this urge in the back of my mind, images dancing in my head the way a hungry man sees food in front of him. I fantasize that I can stab Garnet, whose back is to me, slash Bahari's throat, inject Dannis with one of the poisons from my vials. I find my hand clenching the scalpel in my pocket._

_"What's District 4 like?" Garnet asks, breaking the silence and distracting the gift long enough for me to push it away._

_"Hot." Bahari says, kicking the pebble across the sand. "But not like this. It's humid. And there's water everywhere. Kids learn to swim before they walk, and most of us grow up on boats, fishing and . . ."_

_As he keeps talking, my grip on the scalpel slowly loosens. It's easier to remember they're human when they talk._

Not yet,_ I tell the gift. _Soon. Very soon. _It growls and grumbles at that. No real kills for five whole days. I hate to admit it, but I don't know how much longer I can keep my control. But I need to. If I'm going to save the kids, I need to kill the Careers first. And Kronos, if he's still alive by that point. Then, and only then, can I afford to stop the gift from hurting one else. Then, I'll be ready to die. That's what I want. Isn't it?_

_"What's that?"_

_We all turn as Garnet points to the long shadow to our left. Only, we all know it's not really a shadow. This arena is dotted with small, steep canyons, barely visible from above or far away except as smudges of deep crimson against the scarlet sand. Distances here are deceiving, but I'd guess it's fairly close. A fifteen minute walk maybe._

_"What's what?" Dannis asks, shading his hand and looking at the canyon. "I don't see anything there."_

_"There was a person. I'm sure there was. They scrambled into the canyon just now."_

_Another person. My stomach drops. So far, we've only come across two tributes. The Gamemakers haven't pushed us together like they usually do, probably because there's enough drama from me trying to kill off the Careers without getting caught. One of the kids was trying to sneak into our camp at night, and Garnet got him before I was even awake. The boy was badly dehydrated, probably trying to steal our water. The other was the girl from District 4. I let them kill her. She was supposed to be a Career before she managed to get kicked out of the group, and I'm here to save an innocent person, not one who was stupid enough to volunteer, no matter how that worked out for them. It should have been a tough decision, but to be honest, the hardest part was resisting tearing her apart worse than Bahari and Garnet did._

_But an innocent kid, one who I might actually be able to save. . . ._

_"I'll check it out," I say. Dannis's eyes flicker to me, expressionless, and I feel confused all over again. What is he up to?_

_"Why don't we all go investigate?" Bahari asks. "Four pairs of eyes are better than one. And some of the canyon bottoms have streams. Our supplies could use a refill, and _I_ could use a bath."_

_"Because it could be a trap," I point out. "We could be about to walk straight off a cliff. Literally. I figure if I'm the only one to go and there _is_ some plot to kill anyone who comes by, I'll spring the trap and you guys can come in and rescue me." I'm just trying to go alone, but I realize as I speak that it's partially true. One of the kids _could_ be preparing to kill me. It's a chance I just have to take. Just like I have to risk keeping the gift around._

_"I still don't like it." Bahari argues. "This arena's huge. We can get separated easily and—"_

_"And we all know this alliance isn't going to last much longer anyway.__If we get separated, I'll try to get back. And if that doesn't work, I'll say it's fate telling me to strike out on my own."_

_"Fate? How do we know you aren't—"_

_"You two are being ridiculous!" Garnet snaps. "Let's just—"_

_"Liv, you and Bahari go check it out together." Dannis's voice is quiet but, like it's been since day one, firmly in charge. "Call if you get in trouble, and we'll come."_

_"Fair enough," I say, although I don't feel that way at all. I grab an extra water bottle from Garnet and stride off without another word, but I'm fuming inside. Everything—the gift, the deaths, my plan, all seems so under control. Except Dannis._

_Bahari catches up after a minute and it's clear that he's taking his defeat much less gracefully. If he was Garnet, I'd worry that he might revolt against orders and try to kill me, but I've watched him the past week. He's vicious but he's also the good-little-soldier sort who follows the leader. That doesn't stop him from cussing and stamping his feet and glaring at me the whole hike to the canyon, though. If there really is a kid here, he's had ample warning that we're coming. I just hope he's smart and quick__enough to hide._

_Aside from Bahari's initial grumbling, the walk is largely silent, and when we get to the canyon I don't see anyone except us and, in the distance, Dannis and Garnet. "This was a waste of time," I say. "Come on, let's go."_

_"No." Bahari points down to the bottom of the canyon and this time it's my turn to swear, although I keep it to myself. Not a kid, but there's a gully stream flowing through the canyon, and to our left what looks like a manageable way down. Garnet's right. There's bound to be someone here; the set up is too nice for nobody to be taking advantage of it. And, of course, Bahari wants to go down there, where we'll either be exposed to a trap or have to kill one of the tributes._

_But it's also the perfect place to kill him._

_What's the better plan? Go down there and risk a kid's life, but have a shot at Bahari? Or make sure this kid is safe, even if it means letting a Career live?_

_I could pretend I don't have a choice. Bahari's already working his way down, and it's either follow him or get left behind. I could pretend it's that. Or I could lie to myself and say that I make the rational choice to risk one hypothetical kid for the near-certainty of stopping this murderer. But in the end, it's the gift that takes over, the addiction, the longing for blood, anyone's blood.__Trying to hold it back is as futile as replanting a severed tree trunk and hoping it'll grow._

_The path is steep, more of a ledge than anything, and for several minutes it's everything I can do to keep from falling off the side. I'm grateful as I never was before that you get used to heights in District 7. I was terrified of them as a kid, but when you live in a forest, climbing trees is something you eventually adapt to. And, even though the ledge is small, it's infinitely better than a swaying, breaking tree branch._

_Bahari's not handling things nearly as well. He nearly loses his grip twenty feet from the bottom and yelps like a kicked dog. The second he leaps to the ground he's got his head in his hands and is swallowing like he's trying not to vomit. "Never again . . ." he mutters. "Never _ever_. . . ."_

_I almost do it right then. In fact, while he's not looking I stoop down, open my pack. I pretend to be pulling out the empty water bottles, but really I'm using a syringe to draw out the poison from one of my vials. I slide the plastic cap over the needle and cup it in my palm. My hands are completely steady but my breathing's beginning to pick up. I want this, I want this so badly, and he's just crouched over there, waiting, ready for me to attack. The anticipation builds, sweetness and pain and ungodly desire._

_The sound of falling rocks startles us both. Our heads jerk up in unison and we see a kid not twenty feet from us scrambling away. Bahari's standing before I can even think, sword in hand, chasing after him._

_Damn it! I'm missing my kill! The stupid kid finally figures out that there's nowhere to run in this small canyon and turns to fight. A knife's in my other hand, but it's Bahari who's closer, Bahari who's battling him and his big sword cleaves through the walking stick the boy shoves between them before I even reach the pair._

_Bahari knocks the boy to the ground, and it's like I can watch the future splitting in front of me. I see myself saving him, pushing the kid away, taking the blow for him, fighting Bahari and dying while he runs. And I see myself poisoning Bahari, waiting until his back is turned to deliver the death stroke._

_Hero or monster?_

_Bahari hasn't even looked up from the kill when my needle drives into his neck._

* * *

><p>"Don't do it! Mareen, <em>help me!"<em>

The change is so fast even I don't see it. Mareen's there, standing over him, about to kill her own brother, the flames flaring, ready to engulf him, and then he's flying forward, yanked back onto the rock shelf, Mareen spinning away, falling onto her hands and knees. The camera zooms in and I can see the tears forming in her eyes, dripping down her cheeks. Her lips are moving, but either the cameras can't hear with all the background noise or it's soundless.

Sanderson clears his throat. "What's she saying?"

"'No.' Over and over again." My voice sounds odd in my own ears. It's quiet, but not with pain. With . . . disbelief. Even here, even in this silent room, I can feel the thrill, the craving. How can she stand it? Fight it off? Stay in control? "She's begging for this not to be real."

"Mareen?" Kev taps her on the shoulder and she flinches back. The reaction looks like a wounded animal's, but I know what it really is. Removing herself from temptation. "Mareen, we have to—"

"Get out of here," Mareen says. "Please, Kev, just—just go."

Kev looks between her and the tunnels and I see his face harden. "Not without you. Come on."

Sanderson swears, and mutters something under his breath. I think it's "Just leave her, kid," but Kev obviously doesn't care what either his mentor or Mareen want because he grabs one of her hands before she can protest and hauls her halfway to her feet.

"I told you. You're staying with me," he says when Mareen tries to pull away. "That means you either let me help you out of here or we all stay and burn like a lightning struck tree."

Mareen shudders and I see the fight, the tension, go out of her. She nods and Kev leads her forward, like a dog on a leash. He looks over at the group of kids. "Come on! Or do you all want to stay alone in _here?_"

There's silence for several seconds, then one of them—Trek, the boy from 9—steps forward and pokes the others into motion. They all shuffle behind Kev, keeping a good distance from Mareen, Trek in the lead.

The sound is so low I don't even hear it at first. It's more of a vibration deep down in my gut, and I would think I'm imagining it except that I see Trek put a hand to his chest too, looking puzzled. Then it grows, reaching my eardrums, getting louder and louder. The camera shot starts to tremble.

"Hurry up!" Kev breaks into a sprint, Mareen pulled behind him, the other kids following except for one, that injured boy from 3, who's looking around, confused and frightened.

At first I think it's just their group, some Gamemaker booby trap on the room, but then the main camera shows the Careers jumping up, grabbing their supplies, Iana holding Chel close as if to shield her, District 11 trying to climb out of his little gully, pieces of shale falling into his face. It's the arena. The whole arena.

The kids, the cameras, the walls around them, are shaking, shaking so hard I'm almost moving with them. Rocks start to slide, the ground breaks apart in places, splits, boulders crash everywhere, and Mareen and Kev and their group are trying to run, to get away from the flames in time, all the kids sprinting for cover and—

Everything goes black.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> And y'all thought last week's ending was a cliffie.

Well, the Irish . . . alright, I'll just admit it, we were creamed. But it was against Stanford and at least we ended the season 8-4. And the NBA's finally looking at restarting! That's always a plus!

Alright, it's a pretty simple drill: you review, I sculpt a statue or compose a sonnet in your honor. Whichever you prefer.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15.

Silence.

Silence in the room, onscreen, across all of Panem for everything I know. All I can do is stare at that black screen, waiting, begging, for some sign, some sound. Bren and Sanderson don't so much as twitch. The cameras can pierce the dark and see more than the tributes, but they're building up the tension now, plunging us into the tributes' world of terror.

A cough.

The main screen slowly lights up, the shot dingy, lens grimed with dust, and I see the boy from 11. He's on his back, a boulder pinning his chest, and he's making these strange wheezing noises as his lungs try to fill. He coughs again, and I see blood sprinkle across his lips.

A rumble.

Rocks shift back and forth, and finally a back emerges, then a head, and the boy from Eight pulls himself out of a pile of rubble, dirty but not bloody. He claws his way free, rolls over, and finds himself in the shallows of a newly-created stream that the cave in must have diverted to him. It certainly wasn't there before.

A moan.

The two Careers are crouched down, and the boy's holding his hip—he must have fallen wrong or something because I don't see any rocks around that could have hit him. The girl stands, he tries to too, and his leg buckles. He moans again.

A whisper.

"You two ok?" The boy from District 12 gropes around, pulls his pack over his shoulder, and yanks a flashlight out. "Iana? Chel?"

"Right here. We're here." At first, the only one I can see is the District 8 girl—Iana—laying on the ground, but then she rolls over and there's Chel curled up underneath, shielded by the bigger girl. Twelve helps them up and Iana winces.

"Are you hurt?"

"My back. I'll manage."

Twelve turns to Chel. "Take her pack. The three of us will have to use the lights for a while—I doubt the Careers are hunting much right now."

"Sure." Chel shoulders the pack and turns to lead the way down the passage, but before she's gone three steps she stumbles, shrieks, Twelve grabs her shoulder, yanks her back. Where there was once a tunnel, there's now only empty space.

A shout.

"Kev!" Mareen sits up, head whipping from side to side. "KEV! _Where are you?_"

The same tightness that's gripping her throat seizes mine, the icy emptiness filling her stomach, eating it from the inside out. The panic that makes it impossible to breathe, to think, to do anything but beg. _Kev, no, Kev, please you can't be hurt, you can't be buried or—or—no no no!_

I walk to his black screen, trail my fingers along it, press my face to the screen as if I'll see him through there if I look hard enough. "Where are you?" I echo.

I feel more than hear Bren coming towards me. He puts an arm around my shoulders and I appreciate the warmth, but I can't let myself relax into him.

Mareen staggers upright and feels around. I know she's got a flashlight in her bag, but she's not thinking straight, blundering, crying, screaming for him to be there.

A call.

"Mareen?"

"Kev?"

Rocks fall away from somebody, and the camera zooms in and I feel this burgeoning hope in my chest—

But it's not Kev. It's that boy, the one from District 9. Trek. He pushes more rubble off of himself, and I see that it's mostly small pieces. He was smart enough to tuck into a ball, and even though he's obviously sore, he's not moving like anything's broken.

"Sorry, 'mana," he croaks, feeling around for my sister, finding her hand in the dark. "I'm not your brother. But I was right behind him, he's got to be around."

Mareen nods, too stressed to realize he can't see it in the dark, but the presence of someone else _does_ seem to calm her down somewhat. She pulls out her flashlight, at least, and beams it around the cavern. In the brighter light, it's clear that she's been crying—the tears have left clean streaks across her face, the only color in her face except for her eyes.

"Hey, 'mana . . ." Trek says, standing up to join her.

"What?"

"What about the others?"

"What do you mean?"

"Kev, he was right between us, so he'll be here somewhere. But the other tributes, they were following behind me and I barely made it out. What do you think they're . . ."

Mareen shines the light behind where she found Trek, and the camera changes angles so that you can see the rocks building up, blocking the other side of the tunnel completely. No telling how thick that thing is. "Let's focus on Kev," she says.

They stick close together, the light swiveling around. Mareen keeps calling for him, letting the echo fade each time before she repeats his name, but they don't see him. I'm watching the whole thing, begging for his screen to light up, for the map TV to show us something, but there's only Mareen's camera and the main one.

"Wouldn't a cannon go off if he was dead?" I ask after a minute. Bren sighs, but it's Sanderson who answers.

"It might have gotten missed in all the noise of the cave-in, Liv. Or they might be waiting to see how many of the tributes are gone, like the Cornucopia."

I nod. "Guess you two were wrong," I mutter. "They didn't have any problem trying to destroy a big group as fast as they pleased."

"I guess they thought the alliance was too big," Bren says. "It's hard to manipulate the individual conflicts when you've got half the tributes in a single group. And, more than that, they're simply too _nice_. These are the Hunger Games, and Mareen's spending time protecting the weak instead of herself or even herself and her brother. That can't play well with the powers that be. And those girls Chel and Iana seem to have developed a friendship of their own too."

Mareen circles back to the center of the tunnel, right in front of the mound of boulders, and goes quiet. Trek yelps when she flicks off the light.

"What're you—"

"Sh. Listen."

"Turn up the volume," I mutter. Sanderson grabs the remote and obeys, but all I can hear is the hum of the electronics, the faint trickle of water in the distance.

"There!" Mareen flicks the light back on and darts to one side, to the corner between the cave in and the tunnel wall. As the camera swivels in, I can hear it too.

A cry.

It's muffled and faint, but there. Mareen grabs one of the rocks and pulls it aside, digs frantically through the rubble. She's at the very edge of the cave in, and a good thing too because she's not paying any attention to the rock around her, and she might otherwise pull the entire mass down into her face. "Kev!" she calls out. "Kev, I'm here, it's ok, you're going to be—"

And then you can see a dirt covered hand forcing its way through the rocks, and pretty soon an arm, a shoulder, and then his face, and then Mareen's pulling the last of the rocks away from the wall and you can see a tiny crevice, so small it looks like a cat wouldn't fit, only Kev somehow wedged himself in there and she's pulling him out, and he's alright, alright, alright—

He takes a deep shuddering breath, and suddenly I can breathe again too and the dark seems to lift. Mareen has him wrapped in a hug, but after several minutes, he struggles back. He's steadier now, and to my shock I see a glimmer of his devil-may-care grin pulling at his lips.

"Still want me to leave you behind?" he asks. Mareen gives a shaky laugh.

* * *

><p><em>It's been four days since I left the Careers, and I'm not doing well.<em>

_It hurts to move my face—I can feel the burned skin stretching, breaking, whenever I do. I lost that sun lotion in the flash flood three days back, along with the rest of my supplies. My medicines. All I have now are a couple salty sticks of dried beef, one scalpel, the wire snares that were in my pocket, and an empty water bottle. I sucked the last two drops out this morning. They weren't even big enough to swallow._

_I'm stumbling over the tiniest pebbles. My tongue feels swollen, like a huge piece of carpeting stuck in my mouth. I hear a tiny voice starting to go off in my head, reciting facts from another lifetime: Dehydration. Induces headaches, nausea, and/or dizziness, causes low blood pressure. Kidneys reduce or entirely stop urine production. Extreme stages may cause increased rate of heartbeat and respiration in an attempt to compensate for the lowering. . . ._

_Is there anything worse than this slow death? Only the fact that I can name what is happening to each and every part of my body as it degrades. In an abstract sort of way, I can sort of appreciate it. There's an alien beauty to it, the way the body slowly decides what it can and can't afford to lose, takes progressively more desperate measures to stay alive._

_Like I've done. I'm not thinking as well or as fast as I should be, but when you're walking in a desert, there's plenty of time to work things out. And I can see it now, watch myself take each logical, reasonable step towards madness every minute I've been in these Games. I thought, at first, that being alone would make it easier to control my longings, but with no one else to turn on, the gift is starting to devour me now, like how the body starts to consume its own muscle tissues when there's nothing else to sustain it. Only it's not my body the gift is ravaging, it's my mind. I wonder how insane I'll be by the time I die._

_Of course I won't really die. I keep telling myself that. I haven't gotten a single sponsor gift from Bren. Surely I've earned enough money after killing three Careers to get one bottle of water. He's probably just waiting to see if I really need it._

_But I can't convince myself of it. Maybe Bren's decided to wash his hands of me with my unorthodox plan. Or maybe the Capitol won't allow him to help—I've tried to disguise my ultimate intentions, pretend that all this is being done for myself, but if they've figured it out they might read it as rebellion and stop me from getting help. Who knows?_

_I trip over my own toe, pitch forward onto my face. Somehow I push myself up and stagger on. I'm making for the strange, glistening white mountain in the distance, if only to keep from walking in circles in this desert. Any half-formed plans to follow and destroy the remaining two Careers were shelved when I lost my supplies. The kids will just have to muddle on as best as they can, at least until I can find some way to recover._

_If I recover._

_I start counting my steps. Ten and I'll stop. Fifteen. Fifty. I'll stop after one hundred. No, two hundred. I can do two hundred._

_I make it to 183 before my body gives out. I don't even trip this time, my knees just fold, and I get a mouthful of dirt. I try to spit it out, but there's no saliva in my mouth, and I can feel the grains sticking to the inside of my cheeks, my thick tongue. Some strange mix of laughter and dry sobs bubbles out of my mouth—hysterical, broken, hopeless. I was going to change the Games? Save a kid? I can't even stand._

_A footstep._

_I roll onto my side, pull the scalpel from my pocket. Who's it going to be? Garnet? Kronos? Dannis? I can't decide if Dannis would be easier or harder to face. At least he'll make it fast. Even the gift isn't strong enough to make me stand up, but it does send a surge of relief my way. I can die fighting instead of a desiccated heap of bones._

_But it's not any of the Careers. A little blond head pokes around a scarlet boulder. When she sees my scalpel she goes still, but she doesn't back away._

_A kid. I wasn't planning on this one. The hunger stirs, sensing easy prey, but I'm too weak to act on it. I ignore it, just as I ignore the little voice in my head that says letting her near me is a bad idea. Instead I pocket my weapon again and hold out one hand. I'm too dry to speak, and I don't know what I'd say anyways. Help? Run? Kill me?_

_She approaches me slowly, as gingerly as if I'm a wounded animal. I push myself up on one elbow, watching her._

_She stops just out of arms' reach, and I see her hesitate, fumble with something hanging at her waist. It flies towards me, and I think that maybe it's a knife or something, but it lands a good foot away. I lower my hand and see a bottle._

_Thought, fear, distrust disappear. I seize the canteen and gulp, not caring about the dirt that washes into my throat, that I should take it slowly. Water. Clean and sweet, gliding over my tongue, through my throat. It's a decent sized bottle, but I still empty it in seconds, then tilt it upside down and suck on the lip, hoping for more._

_When I finally admit that I'm not going to be able to get another drop out, I pull the bottle away and see that she's sitting against one of the boulders, watching me. I sit up too, and toss the canteen back at her. Hope I didn't take all of her water—but no, she'd never have given it if that was her last bit. It's too precious out here._

_I have to admit, I'm confused. We're supposed to be enemies. She didn't even have to kill me; I'd have been as good as dead by tonight and no one could have blamed her for it. So why did she intervene?_

_She stands up and offers a hand. "Do you want to come?"_

_I stare at the hand like I've never seen one before. I'm trying to figure things out, but my body's so drained that it's like sawing through rock. What are my options? That same cool, analytical voice that took over with the dehydration starts to speak again._

_I can follow her. I go with this girl, and maybe I'll help her, and maybe it'll help me survive longer to kill more Careers. But I feel the gift, the power and hunger growing as my body gains strength. If I go with her, I might kill her._

_Or I can refuse. I don't make her my ally. I'll make it to tomorrow, maybe, with the water she gave me, but then I either die or find water or Bren comes to my rescue._

_"Um . . . alright then." She pulls her hand back. "Good luck, I guess." She turns and walks away._

_It's what I should do. It's what I was planning. But as I see her leave, my hands start to shake and know that I can't do it. Not because I'll die, or because I think I can keep from hurting her. Because I'm scared—so scared. I see the madness, see it growing, see myself consumed by it. If I go with her, I might kill her. I know that. But if I let her go now, I'll die a monster. Alone, and nothing but a monster._

_"Wait."_

* * *

><p>"Hold still!"<p>

The Career boy braces himself against the wall as the girl examines his hip. Her movements show that she's had some sort of medical training—to really understand how to break a body, you need to know something of how it's put together—but she clearly makes no effort to spare him pain. "Alright," she says after a minute of probing, "here's how it goes. It's disjointed, and you're going to stay quiet while I set it. If you make one noise, pull away, or slow me down, I'm changing my mind and killing you now."

He's a Career, but the look he gives her is so full of fear and horror that even I feel a brief glimmer of pity. His ally doesn't, though. She grips his leg, and yanks and I see his back arch in silent agony.

The main camera stays focused on them, but I don't pay attention. Now that I know my siblings are alive and together, I feel the tension uncoiling inside me, the fear and relief setting in. Bren passes me a glass of something, and I can taste the burn of alcohol in it but I don't care. I gulp it down as eagerly as I took Ames's water in the arena, and then pour out a second cup for myself that I sip on whenever I feel the panic threaten again. I've never been drunk in my life, and I certainly don't plan on starting now, but I _do _need to be calm.

By the time I'm refocused enough to look at the Games again, the screen's switched over to District 12's group. They've made it down the cliff created by the cave-in and seem to be following a sound. Some wheezing gasp.

They round the corner, and we—they, the audience, us mentors—see the boy from 11, trapped under a boulder. Blood's filled his mouth, now, and as he turns his head to the side to spit it out he sees them.

He tries to escape. He pushes the boulder, shoves, and when it's clear his struggles won't do anything, seizes a chunk of rock and hurls it at the boy from 12. He's weak, though, and the throw goes wide. Twelve doesn't even bother ducking. Chel looks like she wants to help, her expression so much like Ames's when she offered me water that I shudder. But before she can approach, the other girl grabs her hand, pulls her back.

Twelve goes forward alone, steps on the boy's hand when he tries to move for another rock. He bends down, glances over the boy's crushed chest, the blood bubbling from his mouth. Then he straightens and hefts the pickax.

"Sorry, kid."

I don't know why I flinch away, refuse to watch. Maybe out of respect for the kid. Maybe I'm just tired of death. Hell, maybe I'm going soft. Whatever it is, I turn away from the screen, look straight at the still-blank map screen until the cannon blasts.

Now the main camera's flicked back to Mareen and Kev and Trek. They all look up at the sound, and I see Kev grasp Mareen's hand with his good one.

"Do you think that was one of our group?" Mareen asks, her voice echoing through the silence.

"No idea," Trek mutters, pushing himself up. "Not with the way noise bounces in these places. Either way, we got to move."

"Move?" Mareen looks back at the wall, and her face scrunches together like a child who's been told that one and one make five. "But what about the others? They might still be alive, they might be hurt or on their own and—"

"This isn't no charity!" Trek snaps. "The others, they wouldn't come back if it was us. And there's only one winner. The Gamemakers gave us an easy way to break the alliance, and we need to take it before we end up friends with half the tributes and can't kill nobody."

Mareen stares at him, then turns to Kev. "You know we can't leave them, Kev. We said we'd take them with us. They were supposed to. . . ." She's smart enough to not say it aloud, but I know what she means. They were supposed to keep her sane. Mareen, like me, has realized the dangers of trying to survive alone with the monster.

Kev studies her and I can see that my perceptive little brother has, as usual, seen it too. But instead of instantly agreeing with her, he stands, runs his good hand along the wall of rubble. "_Can_ we save them?"

"What?" Mareen's face is as blank as if he hit her.

"Everyone else was a good five feet behind us when the tunnel collapsed. And you could barely dig _me_ out. I want to find them as much as you, but by the time we break through all this, they'll have wandered off."

"But—but what if they're trapped? Or hurt?"

It's only long experience that lets me see past Kev's careful mask to the pain underneath. "I was already almost passed out when you got me loose. If anyone's trapped, there's not enough time for us to get to them before they suffocate. And if they're hurt. . . ." Indecision crosses his face for a minute. What if they _are_ hurt? Can they save a life by going in there?

"If they're hurt, we'll probably kill them trying to dig," Trek says. Both my siblings stare at him, and he walks forward, picks up one of the rocks near the bottom of the wall. A small shower of dirt and pebbles falls down to fill in the gap. "You see that? What happens when we try to move a boulder out of the way? The whole tunnel's gonna come down, kill us and them both. And that's if we can even move one of the boulders—do you two got anything to dig with? Because I can't move no boulders with just my hands."

Mareen picks up one of the rocks at her feet, and I can see the conflict warring on her face. I know the questions she's asking herself: is it her who is deciding, rationally, calmly, to leave those kids? Or is it the monster, the faint enjoyment she gets at the idea of an innocent person getting crushed to death or running out of air? And, harsh but practical, can she still fight the monster if she does this? She won't just be alone, she'll have chosen to desert people who might need her.

"This is my fault," she whispers. "If I hadn't held everyone up in that fire cavern we'd have gotten out in time. They wouldn't have been scared of me, following so far back that they—"

"It's _not _your fault." Kev glares at Mareen when she turns to face him. "It's not, Mareen, do you hear me? It's. . . ."

Just like with Mareen, I know what he's keeping himself from saying. That it's the Gamemakers, the Capitol, these horrible Games that did it all. Took me and Dad from them, destroyed their futures, and now that's making them into killers. Monsters. To his credit, Kev barely pauses, doesn't allow so much as a flicker of hatred to cross his face. Mareen and I are the only ones who can hear it lacing under his quiet voice. "It's just a cave-in. Chance. That's all."

The rock drops from her hands, and she looks close to tears. It takes a good thirty seconds for her to speak. "Where should we go?"

Trek shrugs, but Kev tilts his head. "Can either of you hear water?"

"Yeah. The cave must have knocked something loose."

"Let's head towards that, then," Kev says. "We should get more to drink, and if any of the others _are_ alive, chances are they'll go there too."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Many thanks to EStrunk for helping me fight the constant grammar battles against the dreaded ellipses. I know I'll defeat them someday.

Equal thanks to all readers/reviewers! If I had homemade cookies I'd offer them to you, but as it is all I've got is the scent in my glorious Bath & Body Works Wallflower, and that's not going anywhere. So it looks like y'all are stuck with my undying gratitude.

Oh, and Ames is the second character I've ever made based on real life. Trust me, she may come off as similar to Prim, but that personality actually fits her to a T.


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note:** Credit to EStrunk for her marvelous beta-work.

* * *

><p>Chapter 16.<p>

It's not until Kev, Mareen, and Trek are all drinking from the stream that the main camera switches shots and starts to show the remaining tributes from their alliance.

There are—or were—four of them, but at first they only show one. The girl from 6, sitting with her back against the rock wall, eating something. That cut on her leg must have broken open again because there's a scarlet sheen reflecting off the dirty bandage, but she also has her pack, a knife at her belt, and even a pair of those night vision glasses. Much as it hurts me to say it, supplies-wise she's doing better than my siblings right now.

Her head jerks up at some sound and she turns, drawing her knife. The camera pans out and I see that she's facing the other side of the rock wall that my siblings were at. But judging by the angles of the room around her . . . .

"She's not in the tunnel," I say.

"No." Sanderson points to the black scorch patterns on the gray stone. "She's back in the fire cavern. Which means that the tunnel must have collapsed for at least 20 feet. There's no way your siblings could have dug through it."

I nod and watch the girl as she clambers onto the rubble. Now that the camera's moving closer, I can hear what first attracted her attention—the faint cries coming from under the rocks. She brushes some pebbles off one-handed, still holding her weapon tight in the other, and I see the face of the boy from District 3. He's in some sort of a daze, barely seems to notice her standing over him, trying to decide what to do. Save him? Leave him? Stab him with that knife in her hand?

"Look at the floor," Bren says.

At first it seems like there's nothing strange about it. Except that . . . it's getting lighter. As if there's light entering the cavern again, from the ground up. Must be some Gamemaker invention; normally, by the time the rocks can glow like coals, the tribute would be dead from their heat.

The girl notices it too. She leaves the boy, drops back the ground, taps her little finger to the floor, and draws it back, hissing in pain. And then she looks around, suddenly understanding.

The flames aren't gone. They're only sleeping. And when they come back, who's to say how strong they'll be?

She starts to run, ignoring that boy from 3, sheathing her knife. She's fast, faster than I expect her to be with an injured leg, but as the camera sweeps around the huge space, I see the fire roar to life at the foot of the cliff, spreading across the lower floor, up the walls, getting higher and higher.

She's sobbing now, sprinting flat out for another hole I see at the very back of the cave, having trouble breathing because of the heat and panic. The flames are coming higher and higher, one catching the tail of her shirt, licking at her boots like wolves nipping at a deer's flanks, and she throws herself forward, flies through the tunnel, rolls to put out the flames on her body.

The boy from 3 isn't so lucky. Lucidity returns to him when the flames start to lace through his hair, but by then it's too late. He's just awake enough to scream, the cameras focusing on every gruesome detail. Normally, in fires, the smoke inhalation suffocates you long before the flames can touch you, but I guess the Gamemakers don't want something so tame. It takes a good fifteen minutes for him to burn—before the screaming stops and the flames hide him from view.

Bren stands and stretches when the cannon fires. His voice is so cold that I know he's blocking out what he just watched. "I suppose that's it, then."

"That's what?"

"The final twelve," Sanderson says. "They'll want us for interviews. The mentors officially, and probably you too."

I cock my head, trying to add up the numbers. "Mareen, Kev, and Trek are three. The two Careers make five. District 12, Iana, and that Chel girl. That's eight. That boy from Eight, and the girl from Six. They're nine and ten. Who am I missing?"

"The pair from Five. The last two to get separated from the bigger alliance." Sanderson nods towards the screen where the camera's switched shots to a boy and girl. From the looks of things, they left the fire cavern long before that drama, and now they're holed up in a side cave, fiddling with something on the ground. Are they trying to start a fire? Are they really that stupid? And what are they planning to use for fuel?

Before I can find out, Janus bursts through the door. "Goo-ood morning everyone! Wasn't this a spectacular night? So much _drama_, I was positively _riveted._"

His nose looks about as normal as the rest of him, I notice, but I can't tell whether it's because I didn't punch hard enough or a Capitol doctor fixed it up or he's just applied another couple layers of that cake-thick white face paint. It does seem to be a little heavier there, but he'd probably say something if he was still in pain from it or . . . .

"Liv? Aren't you listening at all?"

I jump, shake my head. "Sorry. Drifted for a moment."

"Well, I was just saying that I've managed to wangle a spot for you along with Bren and Sanderson in the interview." Janus sniffs a bit. "But if you're not feeling attentive enough to attend . . . ."

"No. No, I want to go." I see Bren glaring at me from behind Janus's back, so I force myself to swallow my pride. "Thank you, Janus, for being so considerate." I bare my teeth at him for good measure. Let him think it's a smile if he wants.

He flutters his hands at me, pretending to be abashed. "Really, darling, you're just too much! Now hurry up and get ready—they're doing them by district order, but so many have been eliminated now that . . . ."

"Right." I cast one look back at the TV, at Bren and Sanderson getting ready to leave. "But what about Mareen and Kev?"

"I'll watch out for them!" Janus exclaims.

I don't bother disguising my horror.

"As will I." Lewis shuffles through the door, Martin behind him. "We'll keep an eye on things, I promise. And there are screens over the camera crew's heads—you can keep an eye on the Games throughout the interviews."

"Right," I say, trying to act reassured. I trust Lewis and maybe Martin to do their best, but that's not nearly as good as having Bren or myself or even Sanderson to protect them, even with something as feeble as gift-sending. They're better than Janus, though, and they're also the best I'm going to get, so I don't protest any more.

The three of us head out into the corridor in silence, and we're joined on the elevators by a couple of other district mentors. I dart quick looks at the group, remembering what Bren had said about never joining together. It makes sense on one level—I don't want to be friends with people who have every reason to want my siblings dead—but on another it feels wrong. We've all survived this. I have a feeling we all hate the Capitol. And we're the only people from the districts who can communicate with each other. Why aren't we doing something? Banding together, pooling resources to help one of our tributes win instead of the Careers, maybe even allying against Catiline? I mean, look what happened when Mareen and Kev made an alliance—the Careers are on even footing with the rest of the tributes now. If we made sure our tributes did the same every year, it might break that monopoly the Careers have on the Games. Even if the victors don't care about the tributes personally, the chance to stand up against Snow and Catiline in that way ought to be a powerful incentive for most of them.

I ask as much when we're back in the relative privacy of our floor. Not in so many words, of course—there's no mention of rebellion or even really making friends with the others in general. I just wonder aloud whether it would be a good idea for us to work together with Trek's mentor, share ideas that might help all three of them survive. Bren just shakes his head. "We don't have to ally just because our tributes do. Most people don't—there's too good a chance allies will end up turning on each other. Like last year, with your alliances. I didn't want anything to do with those mentors."

"Understatement." Sanderson chuckles just a little bit. "Last year, Bren was sneaking through the corridors and stairwells to get back up to his floor without meeting any of the other mentors. He didn't want them coming after him, thinking your strategy was all his fault."

"Not even with Dannis?" I ask Bren. "Why not? We all know that one was . . . different."

He shrugs, avoids my eye. I fold my arms. I don't want to deal with the pain that the memories are going to bring up, but I'm too curious to stop them now. After a minute, he shrugs again. "Like I said. We just don't team up. Not when there's any chance our tributes might kill each other."

* * *

><p><em>"Liv. Liv, wake up."<em>

_I jerk from my doze and find Dannis leaning over me. My first instinct is to shriek, and I barely bite my lip in time. I stretch to cover it. "What is it, Dannis? My watch?"_

_"Yeah. I let the fire die so it won't wreck our night vision, but the coals are still warm if you want to put your back to it when you watch. The night's gotten cold."_

_"No kidding," I mutter as I feel the icy tip of my nose. Even my lips are cold. "Ugh. At least it's too dry to snow."_

_"What's that in your hand?"_

_"This?" Too late I realize that I forgot to return the black widow venom to its pouch in my surgical kit when I drifted off. Damn. I shrug, slide into acting mode. "Found a couple of medical-related items in the Cornucopia and fell asleep studying this one."_

_"Can I see it?"_

_I'm trapped. If I don't let Dannis see it, he'll know I'm hiding something. If I let him have it, he'll see this is nothing like what's in our meager first aid kits and figure out I'm up to something anyways. I go with my gut and hand it over. I crawl out of my sleeping bag as I do, though, ready to fight or run if he decides that it's a threat. I feel the monster—no, the gift, it _will_ be a gift—awakening in me, ready to attack._

_He holds it up to his nose, squinting to read the label in the dim light. My hand tightens slightly on the knife hilt and I'm thanking Bren in my head for ordering me to keep one belted on at all times. Dannis notices the gesture and chuckles._

_"Are you going to kill me with that, Liv? Or is this—" he shakes the vial, "more your style? Considering how you took out Destiny at the bloodbath, I think you do just fine with a knife."_

_The way he says it, so matter-of-fact, using her name instead of her district number, makes it hard to understand. Then my mind puts it together. Destiny. Female tribute from District 1. The girl I killed today._

_Oh God, he knows. He knows and he's watching me now with an amused look on his face and I'm feeling sick to my stomach but I can't, I _can't_ let it show. Without a doubt every camera is on the two of us now, and I need to be strong if I'm going to have any chance at this thing._

_"Saw that did you?" I ask nonchalantly, taking the venom back and pocketing it. What's he going to do? Kill me? Call the others? For a second I consider trying to run for it. I might make it—I'm fast, strong, resourceful. And I have my . . . gift. Surely that would help._

_But I can't do it. If I leave this group of allies, my whole plan is gone. I have to stay with these people so I can kill them, and that means I have to either convince Dannis of it__or kill him first._

_My voice is absolutely calm. It hasn't even been a second since I spoke, and I don't allow any desperation to enter my tone. "I'm surprised you didn't say anything."_

_"Why would I?" Dannis arches an eyebrow at me. "You're killing off the best of the competition this way, and since I'm forewarned I doubt you'll come after _me._"_

_"You mean . . . you're planning to let me do this?"_

_Dannis shrugs. "Obviously not to me. But I think I like you, Caldwell. I'd rather see you win than, say, Bahari. Or even my partner, Garnet. It's time we had a victor with some intelligence, which means either you or I should take this." He holds out a hand. "Allies?"_

_What choice do I have? I shake the hand of a boy I'm planning to kill, and smile in his face. "Allies."_

_His lips twitch up in response. "I'm not saying I'll help you if you get yourself caught, though," he promises. "So try not to do anything stupid, alright?"_

_Right. Because trying to murder five trained killers while pretending to be their friend isn't stupid at all.__I set my lips in a smirk. It seems to be my basic response to fear. "Get some sleep, Dannis."_

_He obeys, curls up in his sleeping bag, not looking at me as if to prove that he really doesn't have anything to fear from me.__ I wait until his breathing evens out, then settle my back towards the campfire, watching the desert around us. But, although I hate to admit it, my eyes watch the curly brown head in the sleeping bag more._

_What am I supposed to do with this? Part of me, the practical part that realized how I need to deal with the gift, says I should kill him. Here and now, while he's asleep. Black widow venom is too slow-working, but one of the others I've been given can probably get the job done fast. And as long as he dies before he speaks, the others will assume he got bitten or stung by something._

_But it only takes a minute of thought to see the holes in the plan. I remember Dannis being the one to tell me I could join the group. The one who followed me out of the training room that day with Kronos. The salute he tossed off at the Cornucopia. There's no question about it. He's the leader, and the others keep me around because of him. If I take him out, even if they don't suspect me, they'll either kill me or—if I'm very, very lucky—drive me away. And I can't afford that. I need to stick with this alliance, need to remain the hidden killer. Dannis is my ticket to both of those._

_But how am I ever going to kill him if I become his friend?_

* * *

><p>I tune out most of Petronius's twittering as he hastily dresses me in yet another black outfit, bemoaning that somehow I've managed to lose <em>more<em> weight in only two days. Normally I don't mind him, but the paranoia, the same nervous fear I felt when I was helping Janus and kept away from the TV screens, makes it hard to concentrate. I'm so worked up I don't even bother to protest when he somehow attaches an oversized red rose to the side of my head—I just want to get out of here.

Luckily, he seems to sense this, and has me done in record time. I'm dolled up in only five minutes, and then he escorts me to the same media room where I helped give the private interviews only a little while ago. Bren and Sanderson aren't even there yet, and the cameramen don't seem to mind when Petronius points out the TV screen hidden behind the faux-mantelpiece. He switches on the Games for me, then flits away. I curl up on the seat I had before, tuck my knees under my chin, not caring if it wrinkles my dress.

Bren's comment is stuck in my head, that he won't ally with Trek's mentor because one of them might die. Part of me knows I'm over-thinking it, but just the idea makes me start conjuring up horrible images of how it could happen. Does he think Mareen's bloodlust is going to lash out at him sooner or later? Or that they're going to get far enough in the Games that it's the only reasonable thing to do? Or . . . could Bren suspect that Trek's going to turn on them?

The next time the camera shows my siblings—how aggravating that I can't see them individually from in here!—they're heading back to the Cornucopia to retrieve some of that buried supplies. They keep having to retrace their steps, though. Kev was smart enough to leave markers—unobtrusive colored pebbles at tunnel corners—for their passage, but the cave-in created detours everywhere, and there are also numerous streams flowing through the arena. Most are small and harmless but a couple have strong currents, or are boiling hot, or letting off some sort of gas that makes the group choke and back off.

As they keep wending their way, I watch Trek, really studying the tribute for the first time. He's fifteen, Mareen's age, and taller than her, although that's not saying much. He and Chel were the first to recover from the bloodbath, where most of the others went into shock. And he's clearly in these Games to win; no protecting innocent strangers or death plans for him. I wonder what he's going to do when he realizes Mareen and Kev have some very different ideas. But I also remember what he said about not wanting to kill friends, and how he was the one who helped cauterize Kev's arm. He's a risk, I decide, but not an entirely foolish one.

"You ready?"

I spin and see Bren and Sanderson at the door, dressed in their own suits. Faint leaf patterns are etched onto the jackets, like the one Kev wore in his interview. Petronius really does do everything for us. Caesar stands behind them, and the cameras are rearranging themselves, preparing for the interview.

"Yes." I straighten up and turn to face Caesar. He gives me an encouraging smile, but he must be on a tight schedule because the minute we're all arranged to the camera crew's liking, he nods at the cameras and we're off.

"And here's the group all of Panem's been waiting to hear from," he tells the camera. "Our District 7 mentors. And accompanying them is none other than last year's victor, Liv Caldwell!"

I give a small smile as the cameras swing around to me, but Caesar's merciful enough to keep speaking instead of talking to me. "District 7 came into these Games with quite a bang! Literally. I'm going to have to ask the question that I know viewers . . . ."

He addresses general questions to the three of us that I mostly let Sanderson and Bren field, then talks to them about how their individual mentees are playing out, letting each of them make a pitch for the sponsors. Bren tackles the big question of why they made such a stupid decision to take on the weaklings, and I can tell Caesar buys it. I would have thought it impossible, but somehow Bren's explanation that they were chosen solely as cannon fodder tempts even _me_ to believe him for a second. And I can practically see the viewers admiring such a crafty 'plan,' even if it didn't work out.

Then Caesar turns to me.

"So, Liv, I heard that you had quite the reaction to your Capitol escort last night! Why don't you tell the audience about it?"

I bite my lip, pretending to be embarrassed. Really, I'm just a little bit ticked. I mean, what do Janus's pranks have to do with protecting Mareen and Kev? "Janus, um, surprised me . . . . I suppose you could say I overreacted."

Right on cue, Bren barks out a laugh. "Punched him straight in the nose. You should have seen his face!"

Caesar grins at me. "Got to keep those survival reflexes sharp, hm? We've seen that same spunk in your siblings, too."

_Ah. So that's what the tangent was for. _I nod, slide into the opening he left me. "Yes, and in much the same way. You should have seen _Mareen's _reaction to Janus surprising her on the train. It involved a knife."

Caesar's a good enough sport to laugh. "There's no denying your sister is very much like you, Liv. And just looking at their spirit, it's obvious that Mareen and Kev are very strong players, here. Of course, with the field as full as it is . . . what sets your siblings apart from, say, our two remaining Careers? Or Devon?"

_Devon?_ Oh. The anonymous boy from District 12 now has a name. He's the only other really strong contestant left.

"Intelligence," I say. "The two of them aren't just good at fighting like the Careers or tunneling or whatever it is Devon knows about mines. They're smart. And that means that they can adapt and survive whatever these Games throw at them."

"Well said." Caesar's face is almost gentle. "You're living proof that intelligence beats brute strength every time. And, speaking of similarities between you and Mareen . . . what about the other one? As shocking as it was to watch those mines explode, I think what really brought Panem the edge of its seat when we saw Mareen nearly kill again. Tell us, what's going through her head at this point? And through Kev's too, standing by her?"

My first reaction is rebellion. He wants me to talk about the monster? Something that's destroyed me, my father, and now my brother and sister? What am I supposed to say anyway? 'Oh, my sister has a great weapon, an ability to fight and win, but she's decided not to use it because she's a better person than me and won't play your Game?'

But Caesar asked me the question. And, of all the people here in the Capitol, I do trust him and Petronius a hair more than is probably healthy. If he asked me, he must think there's some way to put a positive spin on things.

The audience likes strong tributes. But even more than that, it likes a good story. It likes hearing about sacrifice and heroes, so long as it doesn't strike too close to home, make them squirm, make them remember that they're the villains. That's what I need to make my siblings. I need to convince the Capitol, these people that get their kicks out of watching kids slaughter each other, that my siblings are heroes, not idiots.

"There's something you need to understand about Mareen and Kev, Caesar." My voice is low, careful. I've lived on nothing but lies for the past year, but now it's something much more dangerous. Mixing lies and truth.

_Truth: _"They don't want to survive these Games."

Caesar leans back, blinking, and even Sanderson pales. The only person who doesn't react is Bren. Or he does, just a little. He gives me the slightest nod. I've barely said half a dozen words and he already knows what I'm doing, the line I'm walking. I wait for the silence to ripen, planning my next move.

_Lie:_ "Or, at least, Mareen doesn't want to win. And neither does Kev. What each wants is for the _other_ to make it out."

What each wants is to die human rather than live a monster. But I can't name them as rebels, not now. I need another excuse, and their relationship is the only card I have to play. And it works. I see Caesar's face melt, but I keep my own as blank as if I was still in the Games. In a way, perhaps, I am.

_Truth: _"Mareen wants so badly to protect Kev. She's conflicted, though, because if he's not there, there's no way she can take care of him. But with him . . . well, there's not an off switch for her bloodthirsty side. It will allow her to protect him, but it also encourages her to try and kill him." I hesitate, then decide I need to elaborate. "It's like a voice, constantly whispering in her ear, telling her how to kill, how to hurt, how to destroy. And it's nearly impossible to drown it out."

I've never discussed the monster before. Not with my Dad, not with Bren, not with _anyone_. And here I am doing it on camera. My voice is ice, and so is my face.

_Lie:_ "Mareen is doing what I did. Using that aggression, but channeling it solely into her enemies. Otherwise, like she said awhile back, she needs to fight it off."

"And Kev?" Caesar prompts breathlessly. It's not an act. He's not the announcer anymore, he's leaning towards me, staring me straight in the eye. I notice that, along with dying his hair and lips green, he's also colored his irises the same way. "What does he think of all this?"

_Truth:_ "He wants Mareen to win. No matter what the cost to himself."

Win. Not survive.

Caesar relaxes back, and it's like some spell has been broken. He shakes himself, and then holds out his hand to each of us in turn. "Liv, Bren, Sanderson, it's a pleasure to talk with you all. I don't think anyone can deny how very insightful the three of you are, or what a huge advantage District 7 has in having the three of you as its mentors. The odds really do seem to be in your favor this year. I know you want to get back to the Games, so I think we'll end these interviews here."

Despite Caesar's talk about getting back to the Games, he and the camera crew pack up first to go, and we're left watching the TV screen, now focusing on District Five—who were, in fact, building a fire. I wonder whether they'll they'll get smoked out first or attract the competition. But there's no sign of Mareen and Kev. As soon as the last tech leaves, trying to juggle a tripod and oversized carrying case, I dash for the door.

I'm moving so fast, I don't see the man in front of me until it's too late—I careen into him full tilt.

Time seems to slow, stretch, the same way I've seen caramels do when you pull one apart. My momentum hasn't even reversed yet, but somehow my eyes yank up in time, take in the dark eyes, patrician features, neatly clipped black hair—

Catiline.


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note: **EStrunk deserves a huge deal of credit for catching a ridiculous number of typos.

This is another one of those chapters that I think absolutely _has_ to be done right. Please, even if you've reviewed nothing else up until this point, I would be _thrilled_ to hear what you think of this bit.

Oh, and Merry Christmas!

* * *

><p>Chapter 17.<p>

For such a powerful man, Catiline's not as physically imposing as you'd expect. In fact, he's slim and rather short. Unfortunately, I'm slimmer and shorter.

I bounce backwards, so startled that I'd fall flat on my back if Bren wasn't there. He catches me by the arms just in time, steadies me. "Easy, Liv. What—"

Catiline sweeps inside and I feel Bren go still. His already light breaths become inaudible—I can't tell if he's breathing at all. I swear the temperature of the room plummets ten degrees in that instant.

"Sanderson. Nellon."

"Catiline," Bren's voice is as civil as the other man's, but suddenly his hands are tense, clutching me instead of just giving support. Is he . . . is he _afraid_ of this man? _Bren?_

Catiline turns towards me, the flat planes and angles of his face so severe they _have _to be artificially sculpted. A thin jaw, high cheekbones, a molded nose, and slightly tilted, dark eyes . . . it should be beautiful. That's the most frightening thing. He _should_ be beautiful, and instead, somehow, he would frighten children in their beds.

It's not just his looks that sends cold shivers dripping down my spine, though; I've seen Catiline before, at my crowning, and I wasn't intimidated. No, it's the hint of trembling I feel in Bren's fingers, the chill spreading through their tips. . . . I've been terrified ever since these Games began, of course, but this is the first time I feel frightened for _myself._

Against my will, I feel a slight smirk move across my face, the muscles in my body relaxing, as if I know I have nothing to worry about. My old, instinctive reaction to fear in the Games. If you act like they won't attack, as if they're not even a threat, it's sometimes enough to make them believe it too.

Catiline arches an eyebrow at me and then looks at the other two. "Go back to your tributes."

Sanderson obeys, but Bren doesn't so much as twitch. Catiline has bodyguards behind him, is in the center of the Capitol, but I can still feel the question running through Bren's mind: is it worth it? Trying to take him down?

This is ridiculous. Bren can't die—Mareen needs him. And, much as I hate to admit it, so do I. I gently pry my arms from his grasp and place a hand on his shoulder. "Bren," I say, voice as calm as I can make it. "Go. If he wants me dead, you won't be able to do anything."

Oops. I shouldn't have reminded him that he's powerless. All that happens is that he turns from my grasp and faces Catiline full on.

"You remember the deal we made?" His voice is so soft, as if he doesn't want me to hear what he's saying, lips barely moving, face bloodless beneath his tan. "What you agreed to do for me?"

"Of course." Catiline gives him a look of mingled malice and contempt. We all know he could order Bren's public torture and execution. And he would if Bren was anything more than an annoyance to him—as it is, he's just a persistent fly, buzzing around his head. Not worth the energy of squashing. "And?"

"And you won't mind me staying to see that that deal is kept." Bren's voice has no question in it. In fact, he marches straight back to his chair and sits down before Catiline says anything. I have no clue what he's talking about, but now that he's facing us I get the first full-on view of his eyes. And I know—I _know_—the deaths in his arena, in mine even, are nothing to what Bren wants to do to this man.

Catiline doesn't seem intimidated. He does shrug his shoulders at Bren, though; the motion is . . . off somehow. It's too fluid. Catlike. As if he has no bones in his body. _Just what surgeries has he done to himself?_ "Very well, then. Caldwell, shut the door."

For just a second, I hesitate. This man has the power. I know that. But for me to obey him . . . it's acknowledging that he's in control. That I'm doing whatever he wants.

But that's stupid. Of course he's in control. Of course I'm going to do what he wants—look where disobeying has got me. I shut the door, then sit next to Bren, closer to him than I normally would be. I don't know what I can do, but I get the feeling _I'm_ the one who needs to be there for _him_ now.

"What do you want, Catiline?" Bren asks through his teeth.

Catiline gives Bren a contemptuous look, then focuses on me. I keep the smirk on my face, but my eyes are deadpan. I can handle this. I can. I just have to hold on.

"Still fighting?" One hand flows toward my face, and instantly my calm is broken. I jerk away, feel only the edge of one cold, thin finger brush against my chin. I don't like physical contact, especially not with people I don't know well. Especially not with _him_, the man who tried to sell my body to the highest bidder.

"Leave her alone," Bren snarls, but I don't break eye contact with Catiline.

"No, Bren," I say slowly. "He's not trying to hurt me. Not even trying to intimidate me really. He's just . . . testing me."

Catiline doesn't react, but he doesn't answer either, so I take it as permission to continue. "I'm a bit confused, though," I say. "My siblings are as good as dead. My father committed suicide. Bren follows your orders. What could you possibly have to threaten me with any more? And why would you want to? I made my choice."

"And it was the wrong one."

This time I decide to be the one to wait, make him answer me. Catiline doesn't need much encouragement to keep speaking. "Don't you wish that you could undo it? Take back that decision?"

"I don't deal in hypotheticals." I'm surprised at how calm my voice is, although I shouldn't be by now. It's always been steadier than my emotions. "If I questioned everything I've done in my life, I'd have gone mad by now."

Catiline's jet black eyes watch me, showing no more emotion than chips of onyx. But I know what he's feeling, because I've had the same blank expression on my face before, and I know what it masks. Hatred. Hatred for my siblings' heroics, for making him vulnerable to Snow's politicking, and most of all for me, for my refusal that caused it all. But even so, I know what he's about to offer. "What if I gave you the chance to fix it?"

Something seems to rise up in my chest, the tiniest flicker—not even a spark really—of excitement. I quench it. He's just toying with me. I don't need the slight shake in Bren's head to figure that out. Unfortunately, just like in the arena, I have no choice but to play his Games. "How would you do that? Break into the arena and lift them out by hovercraft? Call off the Hunger Games? Go completely crazy and declare dual victors? Don't be ridiculous—I've survived hell, I'm not going to fall for something as sentimental as all that."

"You're right about that much." Catiline's lips trace a smile, but it's a mocking, secretive one that only makes me more frightened. "There's no way both of them can survive. But, should you make a deal with me, I will allow _one_ to live."

I pause.

"How would you do that?" My heart's thudding against my will. I want this, want so badly to believe that what he's saying is true. If there's even a chance of my siblings coming home . . . of being able to hug Kev again, tell Mareen this isn't her fault. . . .

He shrugs again, one shoulder lifting and falling like a wave. "It wouldn't be a guarantee, of course. Another tribute could always kill them. But the majority of the tributes who die in these Games do so because we push them together, weaken them, soften them up. If your siblings were to get a sudden influx of, say, sponsor money? If there were suddenly no mutts, no obstacles in their paths? If one was to make it to the final fight at full health while the competing tribute had . . . how did you put it? 'Survived hell?' If they were in that situation, don't you think they'd survive?"

Yes. Yes they would. Or they could, at least. They're smart enough, strong enough. I feel my heart in my mouth. My pulse is a thunder in my ears, my head's so hot that I'm getting dizzy without even standing up.

Bren shifts against my arm. "Why? Why are you doing this to her?"

Catiline doesn't bother answering, but the pieces click into place as I think about it.

"Because I rebelled. And they tried to punish me. But . . . but right now, the public thinks I don't care about your punishment. They think I don't care what you did to me. And if that's the case, I'm beating you by refusing your orders. If I do this, though . . . I'll become yours. And then Snow can't pretend that you're incapable of keeping me under control. I'll break."

I break. That's the deal he's offering. If I break, I can save them.

Even Catiline's _smile_ is too fluid to look human. "Your mind was always your best weapon. The ferocity and the cunning wrapped into one impossibly sweet-looking little package." He reaches again for my chin, and this time I force myself to stay still, let his hand lift my face until I'm meeting his eyes. I feel Bren's tension, his fear, thrumming through me like it's my own. He's literally shaking, but I refuse to let myself so much as flinch. Ice. I am as cold and unfeeling as ice—and just as strong.

"How do I know you can do what you're offering?" I ask. I feel Catiline's hand twitch under my face. "Everyone knows it's you and Snow battling for dominance in these Games. How can I be sure that it wasn't him who put my siblings there, or that he won't be the one deciding if they live or die?"

He doesn't like _that_ question. His hand tightens under my chin, draws me in close to him. His eyes are so dark, so full of malice, as cold as mine. I'm less than an inch from him, can smell the faint scent of some perfume emanating from him, when he stops.

"I have had control over your life, little _Livy_, since you stepped out of that arena. You just haven't been able to see it."

He releases my chin, but before I can pull away, he leans in closer. For a split second I'm afraid he's going to kiss me or something crazy like that, but he floats to one side. His lips brush my ear, his voice so low it's barely breathed, melodious, like something a lover would whisper. "Or did you truly think your father's death was a suicide?"

* * *

><p><em>I'm numb. That's the only explanation for why, half an hour after I found him, I allow Bren to take me back to the clinic.<em>

_He tries to leave me outside, but I ghost after him. When he turns around to look at me, I just stare at him until he sighs and leads me in by the hand._

_The clinic is just like I left it. Bright white lights. Impeccable cleanliness. Corpse on the table. Bren pulls me in, pins me to his side like he wants to protect me, but I honestly don't feel anything. Part of my mind starts to wonder if I've gone into shock, but mostly I'm just trying to figure out why I can't stop staring at the corpse._ _It's not Dad anymore, it's just an object. No more life to it than there is in a chair or an operating table. So why don't my eyes want to move away?_

_Bren is looking around the room. "It was just like this when you found him? The room, I mean?"_

_I'm still staring at the body. I know I should talk to Bren, but I just can't make myself care._

_He pulls away, and before I can protest he's right in front of me, blocking my view of the corpse. "Liv. Answer me. The room was just like this?"_

_"Yes," my voice is echoey in my ears, and it takes me longer to think things through than it should. "I turned on the light and there he was."_

_"You turned it on?" Bren walks over to the switch. "Why would he have it off? Wouldn't he have needed to see what he was doing?"_

_He doesn't expect me to answer, and I'm not paying attention anyway. Now that Bren's out of the line of sight, I'm staring at the body again._

_I forget Bren's even there until he steps right up to the cadaver, facing it this time, blocking it from my view. There's a slight squelching sound, and then he's holding the scalpel, staring at it. "Liv? Come look at this."_

_He's still in front of the corpse, so I watch him, waiting for him to move away like he should. I need to watch the corpse. I don't know why, but I do._

_But Bren doesn't get out of the way. Instead he grabs my shoulder, turns me to the side, so that I'm not even looking at where the body _should_ be. I try to resist, but my muscles are all watery. His hand reaches under my chin, pulls it up to look straight at him. "Liv, I need you to focus." He lifts his other hand so that I'm forced to stare at the scalpel he's holding. "Look at the shape of this. The leaf shaped blade. What do you use it for usually?"_

_"Slicing," I recite, words from another lifetime surfacing from some untouched part of my mind. "Particularly for long incisions such as when cracking the chest or opening the abdomen for surgery."_

_"But not stabbing?"_

_"What?"_

_"Um, puncturing. What would you use for a long, thin puncture to the chest?"_

_"I wouldn't." I cock my head. Even Bren should understand this much. "That could kill the patient. Why would you even ask about it?"_

_"You're really out of this aren't you?" he mutters. "Pretend. What would you use?"_

_"A lancet, I guess. A long, thin one."_

_"Not this sort of scalpel?"_

_"No, of course not." I don't understand why he's asking these questions, what any of them have to do with the body on the table, with the numbness spreading across my mind, the deep-seeded knowledge that I've lost something terribly important, but I just can't think what it is right now._

* * *

><p>"You—bastard," I choke out.<p>

The ice, the iron, the control, all shatter. I throw myself at Catiline but Bren wraps his arms around me, holds me to him. Catiline recoils, barely out of reach of my nails trying to claw his eyes, tear through him, make him feel a fraction of the pain pulling me apart.

"YOU KILLED HIM! YOU KILLED HIM! YOU BASTARD, YOU MURDERING DEMONIC _BASTARD!_" Somehow I twist free of Bren, and then I'm on Catiline, fingers around his throat, screaming, incoherent, soldiers bursting in through the doors, trying to pull me away.

"Wait," Catiline wheezes out. If he's still talking, I'm not gripping hard enough. My fingers squeeze tighter, trying to break the cartilage rings, but before I can, his hands encircle my wrists. They're tighter than iron bands, and my wrists go numb, my fingers' grip loosens, but I hold on as best I can, keep him trapped.

"You want them . . . to live?" he pants. "You want one . . . to make it? You have to . . . break."

I stare at him, black hatred thudding through me, worse than for any of the kids in the arena. Dannis's death, Kronos's, will be nothing compared to the work of art I'll make him, the thousand different screams he'll sing to me as I peel skin from flesh, flesh from bones, bones from joints.

Mareen. Kev.

I scream. Scream and scream and scream, and then I'm rocking back on my heels, his throat released but my hands still held in Catiline's grip. I can't breathe, can't think, can't deal with this.

I fall back against Bren as Catiline lets me go, but soldiers grab me, tear me loose. I'm thrown to the floor, get a kick in the ribs, another in my stomach. I curl up tight, head and gut protected as my legs, arms, back, are pounded. Bren shouting, can't breathe, can't think, can only sob, scream, beg, but I won't, I won't give them that, I'll die before I admit they've broken me, die before I give, but I've already given, I'm already broken, broken into a thousand little pieces, beyond repair, beyond saving, beyond redemption—

"STOP!"

The blows are gone and I pull my head up, see Bren standing over me. One of the soldiers is on the floor, clutching a twisted up leg, and the others have backed off. Bren's facing Catiline. "We had a deal," he whispers. "My obedience, her safety."

Catiline stares straight at Bren, and I see a faint sneer form on his lips. "I suppose we did," he admits. With one graceful flick of his wrist, the Peacekeepers return to the back of the room. I don't even think they're breathing hard. Pathetic. Catiline looks straight at me as he adds: "I always do keep my word."

Bren moves away, offers me his hand. I stare at him but don't take it. I can't. I'm broken. Inside and out. How can a broken person move?

He sighs, scoops me into his arms, and carries me out of the room.


	18. Chapter 18

Credit to EStrunk for her amazing beta-work!

* * *

><p>Chapter 18.<p>

"You need a doctor."

"Wouldn't help." I lean against the wall of the elevator and ignore Bren's glare. Bruises, cuts, even the cracked ribs, those will heal on their own. As for the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach . . . I can tell no doctor will ever make that go away.

The elevator is quiet as we reach the bottom level. I make sure to leave after Bren so that he won't notice my limp, but he turns around to wait and sees me stumble when my left knee suddenly decides it doesn't want to follow orders. Instead of picking me up again and carting me off to the medics like I half expect, he just raises an eyebrow and offers me a hand. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," I growl, although I do take the hand. Just so he feels like he's helping. That's it. Oh alright, and because I don't want to end up sprawled on the floor with my knee buckled under me. I think I must have popped a ligament out of place or something when I fell, because it keeps giving out, and by the time we've reached the end of the hall I'm tottering, half my weight held up by Bren.

"Wait. Yes I do." I decide when we're right outside the door. I take my weight back onto my good leg so I can face him. "I want to talk about one thing. Back there. With you and Catiline, when you said that you'd agreed—"

"We're not talking about that." Bren glares at me, as if he can force me to obey with just his eyes. I take a deep breath and make myself say it anyway.

"I want you to take it back."

He's still staring at me, but now his eyes are expressionless. Blank, black, and dead. He pushes the door open without offering me any help walking. "I said I'm not talking about it."

"But I'm—"

The door closes between us.

"—not worth it."

I lean against the wall, close my eyes. My ribs are hurting so much it's hard to breathe, I can barely stand no matter what I'm pretending, and all I can think of is Bren selling his body and soul for me, Dad's murder, my siblings sent to the Games, Ames's body in the arena. Has there ever been anyone who's trusted me, anyone who tried to help me, who hasn't ended up dead or worse for their troubles?

But no. That's not true. One of my siblings has a chance now if Catiline's to be believed. I need to make that worth something. I collect my strength, lock my knee, and push myself through the door.

I haven't even stepped in fully when Janus sweeps me into a hug. "Oh, Liv, you won't _believe_ what's happened! Your interviews have barely aired, and already the sponsor money's begun to _pour_ in. Why, I've never seen something quite like this, so much all at once, all directed to _both_ of your siblings and—whatever did you do to yourself?"

I'm released and Janus stares at me, his white face panicked. I gingerly touch my puffy lip, and it comes away bloody. I don't have the energy for my usual smooth lies, but Janus isn't observant enough to notice. "I tripped. Coming back from the interview I, um, stumbled over a tripod."

"You really should be more careful! Why, I remember one time at a party when a friend slipped in the drinks and—"

I can't take this. My voice is deadpan. "How are my siblings?"

Janus pouts at me. _"That's_ gratitude for you! All my work to get you more sponsors, and you can't even thank me properly!"

"They're fine, Liv." Bren doesn't look up from the screens. "They got supplies while we were gone and settled down to sleep. Everyone's focus is on the Careers chasing down the kids from Five, so they should be left alone for now."

"That was what you said last time, and Kev was almost buried alive."

"They're fine." He stands up, still avoiding my eyes. "In fact, I'm going to leave you with Sanderson and Martin. Janus and I have more recruitment to do, and then I'm busy with . . . other things. Until tomorrow afternoon. I'll only be back if there's an emergency."

"Wait, Bren, I told you I don't want—"

Bren ignores my protests, doesn't even look back. Janus shoots me a smug look—probably thinking my rudeness has gotten what it deserves—and follows behind. I half-collapse into my chair and turn to Martin, who's staring at me. "What?" I snap.

He shrugs his massive shoulders at me and turns away, watching the main camera shot.

I glance at that screen too, showing the dramatic chase between the tributes from Five and the Careers, but honestly it doesn't interest me. Anyone can see that Five's girl, at least, is going to be caught soon, and I don't really care to know what painful or showy way the Careers will do it.

Trek's on watch and Mareen and Kev are sleeping like Bren said, but just seeing them again makes me feel relieved and afraid and twisting apart all in one. It's impossible to believe this is only the second day of the Games. Sure, I know that half of the tributes are usually taken out in the first two to four days, but it feels as if I've been here, watching them, for months. Until I realize one has less than two weeks left to live, and suddenly it feels like there's no time left at all.

"You should probably sleep, you know."

I don't take my eyes away from the screen to look at Sanderson. "Later. It can't be past seven in the evening."

I can't see it, but I _feel_ him shaking his head. "You haven't been outside since the Games started and Bren drugged you longer than you'd thought. It's well past midnight after the third day already."

I pause, glance to see if he's joking. He's not. "Oh."

We watch my siblings for another fifteen minutes. Mareen's curled around Kev, as if she's trying to shield him. I notice, though, that while her arms are wrapped around him, he's holding her hands inside his good one, as if he's keeping her from running off. Or attacking.

"Liv?"

I reluctantly turn to face Sanderson. The compassionate look on his face tells me he knows or guesses most of what happened with Catiline. I guess I couldn't expect him to fall for the whole tripping story. "I mean it when I say you need sleep. I'm not going to drug you, but staring at them for three or four hours won't do anything to help. You and I both know that."

"I can't," I whisper. Sanderson takes a breath, about to protest, but I plow straight through. "I _can't_, Sanderson. Something's going to happen. Something will. I know it, and I can't sleep while I'm waiting to watch them die."

He mutters something under his breath and I catch the word 'cracking,' but I don't care. He's stopped trying to talk me into sleeping and I'm back with my siblings like I should be. Here, nothing else matters. Not Catiline, not Bren, _nothing._ Just keeping one of them alive, no matter what it costs.

I don't know how long it's been—minutes? hours? days?—when Trek stands up to stretch. He glances around, and then his gaze freezes on my siblings. He cocks his head to the side, and his face suddenly becomes more alert, wary. I lean forward, watching intently, although it's so late by now that Sanderson's dozing and Martin's stretched out on the cot behind us, snoring away.

Trek's supposed to wake up Mareen at some point so she can take a watch. So it's not until he walks past her, skirting around them both, that I really start to listen to the suspicions running through my head. Why isn't he going to my sister? Why is he going to the packs; no, to that pile of rubble knocked down by the cave in? He bends down, taking off his shoes. When he stands, he's hefting a rock that's heavy enough to smash someone's head in with one blow.

And that's when I shriek.

Sanderson jumps up, Martin nearly falls off the cot, comes up with his fists raised, but I don't care, all I can do is watch as Trek begins to creep slowly, inch by inch, towards my siblings, improvised weapon in hand.

_"Get Bren!"_ I snarl, and I hear the door open behind me. But all the noise, all the chaos, doesn't reach my brother and sister. They're still asleep and Trek is completely noiseless without his shoes.

Trek. The boy they saved. The boy who teamed up with them. The boy who helped them take charge when they became responsible for the other tributes. The boy who Bren said Mareen might have to kill. The boy who's now creeping towards them with a weapon in hand. It doesn't make any sense, but I'm not blind; what I'm seeing has to be—

"Liv . . ." Sanderson says, watching my siblings closely. Even the main cameras have left off the cat-and-mouse game between the Careers and District 5, focusing on Trek's slow attack. "Something's wrong here. I don't think—"

The door bangs open and I jump so high that my leg completely buckles, and only a quick catch on the back of a chair saves me. I look away from the screens to glare at Bren, hair ruffled, shirt half undone, but his face is so white that I can't be angry. Besides, he doesn't even seem to notice me. "What's wrong?"

I try to explain, but my voice seems to have gone missing and he can see it all on the screens anyway. Sanderson pipes up though. "Either the District 9 kid's more cold blooded than we thought or there's something else going on."

_Something else?_ Can't they see that that kid's poised to attack? He's been playing them, and me, from the start. Or maybe this is a sudden snap, some realization that Mareen's too dangerous or she and Kev are too much competition. That's it. That's why I didn't see it before now.

Bren studies the screens, his lips moving like he wants to speak, but no words come out for several seconds. The District 9 boy is completely still now, seems to be waiting for something. Finally, Bren mutters: "But why a rock? There are other weapons."

_What does it matter?_ I want to shout, but before I can there's a flash of green and Trek lunges. I scream, Mareen's eyes shoot open but she can't move in time and the rock hurtles towards her head—

And smashes into a huge green _something_ moving through her hair.

She tries to jump up, but Trek puts a knee on her shoulder. Confusion and fear flit across her face, but whether her discipline's gotten better or she's just at too much of a disadvantage, the flash of murderous fury disappears from her eyes before anyone but myself and maybe Bren catch it.

Kev's angry enough for both of them, though. And he doesn't have to worry about insanity. He jumps free of Mareen, goes straight for his knife, is swinging it without a second's pause. Trek is about to stand up and block, when Kev spots the fluorescent green blob that's all that's left of the thing he smashed.

"What was that?"

"A mutt, 'mano. We call them crevice spiders." Trek glares until Kev puts away the knife, then carefully pulls the ends of Mareen's hair backwards, dragging the carcass—the thing's as big as his fist—behind, like a fish caught in a net. I notice that he is making absolutely certain not to touch the slime. "They hunt with their ears so I couldn't say anything, and they move slow. But touching the guts gets you deader than the rabbits in my 'buela's kitchen."

Mareen bites her lip, and I can tell she's avoiding the temptation to twist her head and look at the thing. Her voice is shaking. "W-what does it do if it bites?"

"It swells up where it got you and then you die."

Mareen blanches under the dirt covering her face, and I remember that she already hates spiders. I pray that she doesn't get sick. She won't be able to help moving her head if that happens. "Get it out!"

"I can't." Trek sits back now that it's clear Mareen's going to stay still and spreads his hands wide. "I'm trying, but the guts are mashed up in your hair, and I can't touch 'em."

Kev stares at it for a minute, then draws his knife again. I see Trek tense, but Kev flips it around and passes it to him by the handle. "We're going to have to cut the hair off."

To Mareen's credit, she manages not to flinch. Her expression's so horrified, though, that the main camera stays on her until they've hacked it off and she's allowed to stand again. They even show her trying to smooth out the edges for a minute as the group moves camp. Then it flicks back to the chase scene, and it's as if some unspoken signal tells us mentors to relax.

My voice is very small. "What just happened?"

"He's on their side, Liv, has been the whole time. He was protecting Mareen, not . . ." Bren pauses. "You don't mean it that way, do you?"

I shake my head, feeling numb, like my mind's gone into shock. I know what happened in the arena, comprehend it and everything, but I can't quite understand _how_ it happened. How I misjudged so badly when Sanderson and Bren were able to see it.

"You're getting too close to things," Sanderson speaks up. "You're so scared, so convinced that things are going to go wrong, that you're starting to delude yourself, see threats that aren't there. It's why I was trying to make you sleep."

"Good idea." Bren gives me a close look. "I know this is difficult for you, Liv. But stunts like this—it's exactly why we need you to be taking care of yourself. You won't do any good to them if you fall apart."

I nod, still too numb to argue. Bren looks like he wants to say more, but after a second he mutters something about having things to get back to. Martin, Sanderson, and I stand around awkwardly for a minute, then I silently walk to the cot and curl up as best I can with my aching body. But I don't sleep.

The numbness thaws out as slowly as the frost in March. Sanderson's words echo in my head, and long after he and Martin have settled back to keep watching the Games, I figure out their meaning.

I'm out of control. I'm getting so paranoid, so afraid and worked up, that my judgment's going haywire. I remember my Games, how I learned to react. I used instinct, yes, but I also tried to keep myself from rushing into things. The times I tried to jump the gun, to push events instead of just letting them happen, people died. People I didn't want to kill.

I won't let it happen again.

* * *

><p><em>"Couldn't sleep?"<em>

_The District 1 boy shakes his head as he climbs out of his sleeping bag, coming to sit by me. It feels late, but I know my internal clock is entirely thrown off by now. With the two suns in our arena, we've ended up with everything from three hours of night to nearly a full twenty-four hours.__They've gotten colder too, impossible though it seems, and we ran out of fuel last night. The only light we have is from the strange stars, the size of my small fingernail, that give off an oily yellow glow, brighter than any real star._

_I'd think the boy would offer to take my watch if he's having trouble sleeping, but he just stares straight out at the desert, not moving. I give him a sideways look. "Are you feeling alright?"_  
><em>He doesn't respond. I don't think he even hears me. Come to think of it, he's been sort of out of it the past three days. I remember in training he was as brutal as Bahari, as quick as Dannis, but ever since the Cornucopia he's been on autopilot. If I was at home, in District 7, Dad and I would probably be hard at work figuring out what sort of head or psychological trauma he's dealing with. Dad's never been specialized enough to do much good in either field, but we'd try to help.<em>

_But this is the Hunger Games. And if a Career is weakened, it means I have an opportunity._

_I know how I _should_ feel. I should feel like the good little doctor's apprentice who wants nothing more than to save these innocent kids and then go home. Or die, since home seems out of reach. I want to be her. But that sickening gift inside me is growing, has been growing ever since my first night here. And I have absolutely no idea how much longer I can keep something like this under control. Because instead of thinking that this is wrong, or even that it's too sudden, too risky, that the other Careers might see me, I'm thinking that there has to be some way to make this happen._

_I should want to run off and forget about this whole ordeal. I should keep denying the monster. But I know, deep down, that I can't do it. If I'm going to save a kid's life, I'm going to have to kill the other Careers. May as well start with an easy target like this one, and I may as well do it soon before he snaps out of his problems and tries to get me._

_"Hey." I tap his shoulder and the look he gives me is so startled that it's clear he's forgotten I'm here. "Let's walk around the camp. Stretch our legs a bit."_

_His face doesn't change, but when I stand, he does too. I hesitate, trying to figure out if I want to risk going back to my sleeping bag where I've stashed my scalpels and poisons. I have my knives, though, and I coated them with the concentrated bloodmouth venom that was in my second vial. Fast acting, very strong, taking only the shortest time to kill . . . even with some of it rubbed off on the sheaths, it should still only take a scratch. Then I can alter the wound to make it look like a real snake bite._

_I feel the thrill of it rising inside of me, and I hesitantly hold onto it. Embrace it. It's dirty, but it's also energizing—suddenly the darkness seems less dense, things are easier to focus on. Morality, intelligence, plans, are all swallowed by the instincts of a predator. I want this. I want this _now,_ and to hell with my judgment and good sense._

_It's almost too easy. I walk just ahead of him, wait until we're just in sight, but not hearing range, of the camp unless we really shout. Then, as he slows, I spin and attack. I shove him backwards with one hand, tangle my foot with his. He tries to grab me as we go down but it doesn't matter because my other hand has the knife and it's swiped across his stomach, right where his shirt pulls up as he stumbles. A shallow gash, not much blood._

_But more than enough to kill._

_He gasps, feeling the pain enter his body, hands flying to his gut. I wonder if he'll scream. I hope so, even though the other Careers would be on me in seconds. If he does, there won't be an excuse _not_ to cut his throat, enjoy this a little bit more. I flip the knife to a better grip and wait for it._

_He just sinks to his knees, though, staring at me. His hands are starting to twitch. Bloodmouth venom messes with your nerves until eventually you either bite through your tongue and choke on the blood or lose control of your lungs and suffocate. If the shaking's already started, he's got five minutes, tops. His lips move, slowly form one word: _"Why?"

_"Nothing personal." I suppress a smirk. Some back part of my mind is screaming that this is wrong, that no matter what they've done the dying deserve respect, but I won't listen. Can't. "I'm taking out all of you if I can, and you were just next on the list. I started at the Cornucopia."_

_"You . . ." his voice is starting to shake now, and it sounds like he's choking on his own voice. Odd, that. Usually the limbs go first—no wait, they already have, it's just hard to see it in the dark. Good to know. I wouldn't want to have to deal with a defective poison. ". . . You killed Destiny? At the bloodbath?"_

_"Ask her yourself. You'll see her before I do."_

_He lunges at me, but his legs don't support him and he crashes to the ground at my feet.__I know it's a stupid risk, but I can't resist crouching next to him, hearing the words he's muttering. "Killed . . . her . . . D-D-Destiny . . ."_

_"Grow a spine," I snarl, punching him in the stomach, right on the wound. He folds, not in enough control of his body to really curl up. "You're a Career, you came to these Games to slaughter everyone you could, including her. I did you a favor."_

_"No. I c-c-came . . ." I don't know where he finds the will to do it, but somehow his hand grips my collar, yanks me down so that I'm inches from his face. His breathing is labored, he's choking on his own words. "Came t-to s-s-save her."_

_Save her? He didn't want to win? He just came in here to—to—_

_"It'll . . . c-c-c-come back . . . back arou—around. . . ."__His eyes roll back in his head and if he's still coherent, he hasn't got enough control to communicate. He convulses on the ground in front of me, and suddenly I'm not a killer anymore, I'm just a__teenager who's in way over her head, watching a boy spasm and die in front of me and knowing that I did it. I murdered someone. And not an evil monster either. No. The only monster here is me._

_What was she to him? A friend? Sister? Lover? I don't know, and I'll never know now. She must have been special. Special enough that he volunteered to protect her. And him? He wasn't innocent, but he did it to save someone he loved. I can respect that. And now I've killed them both._

_I misjudged._

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Hey there! Hope everyone had a fantastic Christmas! I just want to say thank you to everyone for the mind-blowing response to last chapter. Particularly the anonymous reviewers; I can't send you guys personal notes, so hopefully this reaches y'all and lets you know that I am eternally grateful.

Several people have commented on the way this story is similar to LOST in structure, so I decided to give a bigger shout-out here; I'm idly curious if anyone besides me can spot the scene that the flashback was based on.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19.

I wake up to a shout.

For a second I'm terrified, convinced one of my siblings is in danger. But when I sit up, I realize that the shriek was from happiness, not terror. Mareen's still glaring at Trek, though. "Look, I know we got a sponsor gift, but that's no excuse to whoop at the top of your lungs like an idiot," she snaps. There's no real fire to her voice, though—she's too thrilled with whatever they've got to be annoyed, and when the camera zooms in on them, I can see why.

"What do you think?" Bren asks, watching me as a grin breaks across my face. "Will the new sets of night vision glasses come in handy?"

"Definitely," I say as Kev extinguishes their torch and slips on his own pair of glasses. Even Trek has a pair—Bren must either think he earned it after saving Mareen's life, or not want to risk him keeping a light. With no torches, the odds of them being found just plummeted.

"There's something else too," Bren says. "A bit of a gag gift really, but the audience always prefers a tribute they can laugh at a bit, and we have a lot of money to burn, so. . . ."

Mareen's face as she pulls out the mirror and sees herself in it is truly priceless. "Oh God, my _hair."_ I bite on the corners of my lips to keep from smiling. Mareen isn't this prissy, that she'd worry about her grooming in these conditions, but she must understand what Bren wanted her to do with the mirror, and plays the distraught girly-girl to perfection, giving both the audience and her allies a good laugh.

I leave off watching her try to comb through what's left of her hair and turn back to Bren.

"What have I missed?"

"The girl from Five got caught . . . and District Four is pretty vicious. They had to take her body out in several pieces. The boy managed to get up a rock shelf, and now they're trying to figure out how to get him down because he tosses rocks whenever they try. With any luck, it'll be an all day thing."

I look at the main camera screen, which is showing a squint-eyed boy watching the tributes below him, a rock in either hand. The Careers are circling just out of range of his rocks, like dogs set on a treed raccoon. It feels horrible to hope that they all kill each other, but there can only be one winner, and I can already tell there's no way Five will survive. Maybe Bren's casual way of dealing with it is the only way you can; if you know they won't make it, it's better not to care at all.

"What else?"

"I'm mapping the arena again." Lewis is so quiet, sitting in the back of the room, that I didn't notice he was even in here until he speaks. He holds up a piece of paper. "And the water's rising more than ever. It's not threatening anyone yet, but it'll start driving them together in a few days at this rate. Looks like they want a slightly faster set of Games than normal. Oh, and some of it's not safe."

I nod, then turn to Mareen's and Kev's screens. They're chatting softly with Trek, now, laughing a bit at some story he's telling them while they start walking. Mareen's got one hand on the wall, and as I watch it trail along, I realize that she's holding a white piece of rock, scratching their progress into the tunnel. It's risky—anyone who sees it might try to follow—but it'll also keep them from walking in circles like the lone tributes from Six and Eight seem to be doing.

"Does Kev still have a good amount of sponsor money?" I ask. Bren nods and I turn to the table of gifts, flicking through the lists of medicines. "The burn on his arm isn't going to keep out infection permanently," I explain as I go. "In fact, things are going to be worse for him in a few days because the burned flesh will start to rot. Traditionally, they used maggots to remove that, but I'm guessing the Capitol will have something more sophisticated. . . ."

"Try this." Bren selects a dark brown bottle from the list. "It was used a couple of years ago in the Games. It's expensive, but I think we have enough. . . ."

I grimace, then shove the thought of _why_ we have so much money aside. I can only focus on one thing right now, and that's my siblings not the deal I cut with Catiline. Besides, it's worth it. I sit down and settle in for what looks like a very long day.

Except it's not. It's a very long _three_ days. I don't know if it's that Catiline is keeping his word, or that the Gamemakers want to cut out the deadweight first and figure my siblings have proved their worth already. But either way, aside from a tricky navigation over a boiling river and some outrageous flirting that Mareen and Trek fake for nearly a day just to annoy Kev, there's not much drama. The medicine helps Kev more than I could have hoped; the burned portion of his arm doesn't grow back, not even the Capitol's medicine could do that, but it sloughs off, leaving behind a smooth stretch of scar tissue, and keeping him from any infection. Bren disappears several times a day, but I'm left alone—horrible though my injuries are, I suspect they're also keeping Catiline from forcing me to keep my end of the bargain. Not that he cares about any pain I'd be in, but the bruises splotched across my body look a little repulsive even to _me. _No Capitol patrician wants to touch me while I'm like this.

If it hadn't been for the false alarm, I'd be tense enough to chew through wood by the end of first night, but Bren's point finally makes it through to me: I need to run this like a distance race, and that means I can't invest all my energy right now. Instead, I let them coast and take things one day, one hour, at a time. They—and I—are getting time to recover, and I force myself to be grateful for it, no matter what comes later.

I just wish that that belief was enough to let me sleep for more than a few hours every night.

* * *

><p><em>I don't know where I am.<em>

_The ground underneath me is hard and smooth, not the coarse sand I'm used to. And it's dark—my eyes are shut, but neither of the suns is burning past my lids. I don't think I'm in danger. I've just slept for a very long time, and surely if there was someone who wanted to hurt me, they'd have killed me by now._

_I roll over and start to stretch when the pain breaks through. All across my face and neck, so intense and hot I think my cheeks ought to be glowing. Sunburn. I try not to move my face too much as I crack my eyes open. . . ._

_And see the District 10 girl watching me._

_It's too late to curl up and pretend to be asleep again, but I still consider it. I don't want to get back into the Games, don't want to think about what allying means for me, my strategy, and—most importantly—her. I don't want the slight catch in my breath, the monster starting to wake up, sniff the air. But I don't have a choice._

_I squint at her, my eyes adjusting to take in the place where we are. It's a surprisingly roomy crevice at the bottom of one of the canyons—wriggling through the tiny hole leading to this spot was difficult, but once you're inside there's enough room to stretch all the way out when you sleep, at least if you're as short as I am. Even better, there must be some sort of ventilation here. It's still hot and sticky, but infinitely cooler than under the direct suns._

_"Does your face hurt?" she asks. I nod. Hurt's an understatement. I feel like the sun was rubbed against it._

_"Here." She passes me a green leaf that's shaped like a flattened tube, with strange spines on the sides. It feels squishy in my hands, like it's been filled with water. "Peel it apart and rub the jelly on your face."_

_I'm naturally suspicious, but I know that's stupid. There's absolutely no reason she'd try to poison me after going through all the trouble of bringing me here. So I obey and feel an instant cool spread over my face when I do. It's as good as one of the Capitol medicines, and I can't stop the sigh of relief that bursts past my lips. "What _is_ this?"_

_"Aloe vera. You can eat the leaves, too, but they taste nasty." The girl takes another leaf and spreads it over her own face, then turns to me. In the semi-dark, the gel glistens strangely on her face, making her look like some alien creature. "I'm Ames."_

_I hesitate. "Livy." I don't want to be 'Liv,' the murdering tribute, to this girl. "How long was I asleep?"_

_"One night. But it was one of those really long ones."_

_I swallow, make myself ask the question. "Any deaths?"_

_"None. We're still at ten players." She sits back on her heels and starts counting on one hand. "Your district partner, Kronos. I've seen him when I went scavenging close to the mountain, and he looks scary. You. Me. Only two Careers—I have no idea what happened to all the others, but they're dead now." I don't know what expression my face has, but she's staring at her fingers, still counting, so it doesn't matter. "I think the girl from Three and a boy from Eight. But I don't know about the rest."_

_I don't want to ask the next question, but I have to know. My voice comes out hoarse. "Why did you save me?"_

_For the first time, she looks uncertain. Her eyes drop, and she starts tracing patterns on the rock with one finger. "You were alone . . . and I remembered you were a fighter in training. I thought we could team up, since you don't know much about the desert. You can fight, and I can get us food and water."_

_I want to. I want to _so badly_. But all I can think of are excuses not to. And there are lots of those—the sponsors will be dumbfounded; the odds on me will plummet; we're down to ten people; forming an alliance seems pointless at this stage of the Game; my plan of hunting down the Careers will be gone._

_I know the true reason, though. I was scared of being alone with the monster, but now that I have someone again, I'm terrified of killing her._

_But she'll die without me. The Gamemakers will push her out of hiding sooner or later and then Kronos will get her, or Garnet, or Dannis. I _might_ kill her. They certainly will._

_"I'll stay for the rest of the day," I decide. "Help you out with whatever you need, protect you if anything happens. After that, though, I'm off." I can stay sane for that short a time. And the audience will think I'm doing it to learn her secrets, to find out ways of providing myself with water and food here._

_I worry that Ames will see through it, realize who she's allied with and run screaming from me, but instead her face lights up. Her grin stretches from ear to ear, and I find a smile on my face—not that arrogant smirk but a genuine smile—for the first time this Game. The sunburn makes it ache, but somehow I feel better for it._

_"Come on." She hops up, and offers me a hand. I don't bother taking it; I don't want to tempt myself. "I'll show you how I distill water from the ground."_

_Somehow one day turns into two, two into three. I don't know what's happening with the Games. Maybe they think learning to gather water with nothing but the sun and a sheet of plastic wrap is fun to watch. Or maybe they're focused on bigger and better things. Whatever it is, even though a cannon goes off on the first day, and another on the third—both of them for tributes that we don't recognize—Ames and I are left alone._

_And I don't kill her. The temptation is there, I won't deny that, but I somehow resist it every time and, somehow, each time I do, it gets a little easier. It helps and hurts that she trusts me so completely. She tells me about the boy who's her sweetheart back at home—reminding me painfully of Mareen three years ago—about how the cattle in District 10 graze in dry, hot areas, and she spends days at a time out in deserted pasturelands with them, explaining why she knows how to distill water and forage in a desert. Even one as strange as this.__Some of the spiny plants have edible fruits, and she gathers roots or leaves from others. I share my wire snares with her, and even though I never managed to catch anything with them, she somehow gets us a giant hare on our second morning. And I return her trust by telling her stories of my own. I tell the truth about home, about my family, even the sneaking with the Careers, although I hide that I killed them. I pretend that I just helped the kids they were hunting to escape. And I don't tell her about the monster at all._

_I tell myself that I'm doing it because I need her, and I hope that's what Bren's telling the audience too. But there's another side to it as well. Yes, I have to fight every day for my sanity, and yes, sometimes it's nearly as bad as the withdrawal I saw in a morphling addict three years ago. But every time I push it down, every time I manage _not_ to finger my scalpel while her back is turned is another victory. I feel like I'm waking up, like by being with Ames I have a chance to free myself from the Games for a few days and return to sanity. No, we can't both survive, but the rare times I do look ahead, I tell myself that my plan will work better than ever now. I can stay close to Ames, protect her, make sure that she can get back to the thousand or so brothers and sisters she's always chattering about. I can give her a shot at living a normal life._

_But mostly I end up lying to myself, pretending that that's not what's happening. I try to imagine that we're just two survivors who've been stranded together in the middle of nowhere, not competitors who know deep down that one or the other will soon die. And I pretend so well that when the Games force their way back into my world on the fourth day, I'm completely unprepared._

* * *

><p>Even though I remember being surprised during my Games at how long I managed to go without action, I realize now that those times were far from dull. Because my siblings go through the same resting time, and the main cameras still find plenty to watch.<p>

The Careers finally bring down the kid from Five towards the end of the first evening, when he runs out of rocks, and after that it's a good hour before the cannon finally sounds. I want to turn off the main screen, but Janus happens to be in the room and is 'positively riveted!' by the gore. I try to despise him for it, then remember that a year ago I wouldn't have just watched, I'd have been participating. The thought turns my stomach even further, and I end up pretending to nap for most of that ordeal.

After that, it's the District 12 kid, Devon, and his team who take center stage. He's eighteen, spent almost a year working in his district's mines already, and it's clear that that's giving him an edge in the competition. He somehow manages to bottle water from some sort of acidic stream that melts off half of Iana's shoe, and when the District 8 boy tries to ambush Chel, the smallest of the trio, Devon pours it over him and it eats through his back, killing him minutes later. Chel gets splashed too but, to my disappointment, there's not enough to do more than blister one of her arms. Another time, when the Careers get too close for comfort, Devon somehow engineers a minor cave-in that blocks the groups from meeting. It doesn't kill or even injure the Careers, but his odds go up to the top of the betting list the day after that stunt.

According to the ravings of the commentators, these are some of the strongest Games they've ever witnessed, wildly exciting and with amazing twists and alliances. I don't know about that, but I do keep the count in my head. Nine left. Against all the odds, my siblings have somehow made it through five days of hell to the top nine—and, considering how fast-paced these Games are moving, it could all be over within another week.

But I'm waiting for it this time. When the fourth day of this quiet time comes, the sixth day of the Games, I wake up ready for them to turn the tables.

* * *

><p><em>Ames and I are prying flowers from a spiny plant when I spot him. He's just a small figure in the distance, but there's only one person in these Games who wields a long spear. Dannis.<em>

_"Go back to the caves," I say, straightening, my voice harsh in my ears. Ames gives me a strange look._

_"Why?"_

_The gift erupts in me like the mountain I saw in the Games five years ago, spewing fire and destruction. I'm surprised my quickened breaths aren't filled with flames.__All the suppressed hunger, the need for violence, is boiling up in me. I give Ames such a burning look that she stops dead and stares at me, wide-eyed and afraid. For a split second, it's all I can do not to kill her. And then I feel something else in me rise up, fighting the gift, some last remnant of the person I was reminding me that this girl is off limits._

_"Get out of here."_

_Her eyes__go wide. She doesn't question me this time, just seizes the bag of food and sprints off, fast and graceful as a deer. I regret it, but can't decide why. Maybe it's that I've hurt her feelings, scared her, shown her who I really am. Maybe it's that I can't kill her now that she's left._

_She disappears down into the canyon and my attention turns to Dannis. He's already changed directions to walk towards me. No point in trying to hide or run. And I don't want that anyway. I want this fight, I want the pulse of adrenaline, the thrill of the struggle. I've been deaf for a week and suddenly hear music. Blind, and now I can see the sun rising. I take out both of my knives, flip them end over end between my fingers like Bren taught me._

_"Time to die," I mutter, not sure if I'm speaking to Dannis or myself. Because, let's be honest, this is a trained Career, ready for me, with a weapon. No more lies. No more sneaking. It's nothing but my gift versus his training, and I know the audience is slavering for it as much as I am._

_He walks slowly, takes nearly twenty minutes to cross the red sand and come close. And then he stops. Fifteen feet from me, and he stops. He's in range to throw his spear, but with that as his only weapon, he doesn't want to risk missing me—and it's too far for my own knives. I want to growl in frustration, but I smirk instead, refuse to show anything past a detached sort of amusement._

_"Liv."_

_"Dannis." I want to just rush him, sprint in before he can react and stab him again and again and again. But that's stupid. He's got a long spear. I've got knives. He'd skewer me before I even got close. "Didn't expect to see you without Garnet."_

_"Oh, she's here." Dannis's voice is casual, but the way he's holding his spear, ready to block or attack in a heartbeat, isn't. "She circled around to go after the little blond tribute while you watched me."_

_"Hm." I sound nonchalant. Bored, even. But at his words, something like ice floats atop the river of fire surging through my veins. Ames. He's going for Ames._

_I need to fight. I need to fight _now,_ kill him fast, and get to Garnet before she can kill that little girl. But Dannis is too good to be taken by surprise—I need to wait for him to make the first move._

_"I don't want to kill you, Liv." Dannis looks me straight in the eye. "When I said I'd rather you or I win than Garnet, I meant it."_

_"How stupid do you think I am?" Why can't we just do this thing? Does he really think that after all my backstabbing I'm going to fall for the 'I want to be your ally' act? Ames, oh God, Ames. For once my gift and what's left of innocent little Livy are completely in agreement. He needs to die, the sooner the better._

_I blink. I can't help it. My eyes are watering in the brilliant suns, both of them straight behind Dannis. And in that split second, he moves._

_The spear sweeps under my legs, tangles me. I twist, drop a knife to catch myself on the ground, sweep with my other to back him off, but he kicks me hard in the stomach, pins me with a knee to my shoulder, seizes my wrist. My knee twists up, tries to catch him in the stomach, but his free hand smacks it down, and then he levels the spear point at my throat._

_"Do it!" I snarl. The gift surges, and I want to laugh in his face, bite at him, try to claw through his hands even if it will end with me dead._

_But there's Ames. If I can live, I need to. To protect her._

_Damn it, I've gone soft. Blinking, getting distracted by his talking, caring for somebody—not just planning to die for a stranger, but getting attached. If I'd kept my concentration, kept the gift strong, this never would have happened. But for some reason, I don't feel sorry._

_And then the spear pulls away._

_"I told you, I don't want to kill you!" Dannis slaps my face with his free hand, nearly shouts it at me. "Does the fact that you're still alive prove it, or do I have to cut you to pieces first?"_

_He couldn't make me stay still with his threats, but now I can't seem to move. I, the persuasive one, the consummate actress, the one who bluffed the Gamemakers themselves into thinking I was tough, I can only manage one word._

_"Huh?"_

_"I don't want you dead, Caldwell." Dannis sounds his words out slowly, as if he's speaking to a child. "I want to ally. You. Me. We'll go to Garnet, take out her and the girl. Now, do you understand, or should I use finger puppets?"_

_My mind snaps back into place. The gift fades again, but suddenly I can act, think straight. The smirk is automatic this time. "Tempting. But I think I've got it figured out. Let me up?"_

_Dannis stares at me for several seconds, then nods slowly. I stand, give him a playfully dangerous look, half-jump as if I'm going to attack, then back off and sheathe my knives. I can't really get him, no matter what I pretend or want—there's no way I can take down Garnet alone, and I have to save Ames._

_"One condition, though," I say, so nonchalant even _I_ almost think it's not important. "We keep the girl."_

_He snorts. "Turning soft, Caldwell?"_

_"Not like that at all." It's exactly like that. "She's a source for water and food. Keeps me fed so I can fight. And she actually trusts me—thinks she means something to me." The worst part is that it's true. She does mean something. Means everything. "Idiot."_

_Dannis doesn't seem to realize I was talking about myself; his grin nearly splits his face in half. "You don't change much. Diabolical. Alright, we'll keep her alive if we can. Come on, let's head out."_

_We sprint away, and I can only pray that Ames is still alive._

* * *

><p><em><em>**Author's Note:** Grazie mille, muchas gracias, danke schoen, merci, dziekuje, and every other form of thank you I can think of to readers, reviewers, and especially EStrunk for her lovely beta work. Also, a special shout out to the reviewer **Amy** for correctly identifying the flashback scene as coming from one of Sawyer's in Season One. Glad to see I'm not the only nerdy fan-girl here!


	20. Chapter 20

Thanks to EStrunk for her fantastic beta work!

* * *

><p>Chapter 20.<p>

It all happens because of the rising water. Lewis's prediction that it'd be used to drive all the tributes together turns out to be right, and by the end of the third night, everyone's camped within earshot of someone else, although that doesn't necessarily mean they're close together—the acoustics in the caverns are both incredible and misleading. The Careers waste a good two hours trying to track down the noise they hear from Devon's team, but instead stumble on the girl from Six, the only tribute left without an alliance.

Mareen hears the screams before anyone else, but pretty soon both Trek and Kev are turning towards the echoes. Trek's face twists up, as if he's eaten bad meat, but Kev is more focused on Mareen. Her fists clench at her side, nails digging into her palms so hard that I see blood starting to pool there.

"Mareen?" he asks, "Are you going to—"

"Hush." Her breathing picks up, almost matching the screams. Shudders rip through her body, shaking her like a leaf, until she goes completely still.

"I need to help her." Mareen's voice is so quiet I have to lip-read half her words. "I need to find her and help."

"Help?" Trek nearly yelps the words. "Are you crazy?" Kev jerks around to face him, and even with the glasses covering his face you can see my brother's glare. 'Crazy' strikes too close to home when it comes to Mareen. Trek turns to my brother, spreads his hands wide. "Look, 'mano, I like you guys, but your sister is dangerous when we _aren't _fighting. And I don't want to go against no Careers."

"I'm going alone." Mareen sighs, slowly opens up her fists. "You're right. It would be too dangerous to have you guys there with me. Here, take my pack. I'll get it when I come back."

Kev folds his arms, refusing the backpack that she tries to pass him, and he glare turns on her now. "Stop the lies. You aren't planning to come back. You're planning to die down there aren't you? Fighting them?"

"Yes." Mareen holds the pack out to Trek instead. He hesitates, then takes it and hands her one of the two short swords he carries. Mareen looks at it warily as she swings it back and forth, but her voice is steady. "I know I'll die. But this girl—she has to be from our old alliance. I said I'd protect them. And I can't—I can't just turn my back, Kev. Not again."

And, just like that, I understand what she wants to say. She's willing to die because she'll be helping someone. Trying to save a girl's life, even if there's no way it'll work. And that means she'll die a hero instead of a monster. That's why she's volunteering—because she needs to prove to herself once and for all that she's not a monster. That she's not me. I see it, and from the way Kev has his head tilted to one side, he does too.

But there are cameras watching, so Mareen clears her throat and adds, "Besides, if I can just take down one of the Careers, it'll give you a better chance. And you're going to win, Kev. I want you to win, not me."

She walks away, leaving Kev staring after her. He watches her disappear around the corner, then suddenly dashes after her, hissing: "Wait!"

Mareen spins around at the sound, sword instinctively raised, but as soon as Kev comes into view she lowers it again. Behind him, looking like he can't quite believe what he's doing, walks Trek.

"I told you to let me go," she whispers. Another scream echoes through the passage.

"I'm not listening. You need me, Mareen. Don't try to pretend you don't. And she needs us."

The girl's screams are coming faster now. Short, staccato bursts. I want to shout at them, scream that the whole thing is a bad idea, but my voice seems to have disappeared to somewhere in my stomach. Not as if they can hear me anyway.

"Look, we don't have much time," Kev says. "You're not getting rid of me, so just let us come."

Mareen scowls at him. "Fine, then. You can come with me to help me figure out where they are. But after that, we go our separate ways. I don't want you two fighting, understood?"

"Sure. Now are we going or not?"

"Going," Mareen spits. She turns away, walking so fast that Kev and even Trek have to trot to keep up, but with the camera swiveling around, focused on the front of her face, I see the fear in her eyes.

* * *

><p><em>"I'm leaving."<em>

_Dannis and Ames both turn to me, looks of utter shock on their face. I ignore it, trace along the ground with my knife, drawing in the sand. "The way I see it, there are two options. If we stay together, the Gamemakers will push us and the other tributes together. We could easily get attacked and, no offense__ Ames, but you're no fighter and Dannis, you can't walk. It will be worse than when Garnet attacked, and that was bad enough. My odds are better if I'm on my own."_

_"What about food?" Ames asks. "And water?"_

_I shrug. "You've shown me enough that I won't starve. And water . . ." Hm, that's true. Without that plastic tarp that Ames uses for a still, I won't be able to stay hydrated. And it takes all day to get enough from it—even if I was heartless enough to steal it from her, there'd be no way I could keep moving like I need to. "Well, I think I have enough sponsor money now to take care of that. Hope so at least."_

_Dannis is staring at me from where he's sitting, eyes narrowed. I flash him one of my trademark smirks. "You know how it is. Just business."_

_To my surprise, a smile of his own quirks up. "Wouldn't expect anything less from you, Caldwell. Hope the odds are in your favor."_

_"You too." And, to my surprise, I actually mean it. He can't win, not if I'm going to beat the Capitol make sure that Ames survives, but I still can't seem to wish him harm. That whole line of thought is too confusing, so I turn to Ames, who looks like she's about to cry. I steel myself, keep my expression as uncaring as I did with Dannis. "Don't take it personally. We had a good run. But we're down to the final six—a three-person alliance is just stupid. And I can't be your babysitter anymore."_

_She nods, but her scared, small expression doesn't change. And, as I shoulder my pack and turn to go, I see her start to follow me out of the corner of my eye._

_I keep my back to her, pretend not to notice her following, until I'm sure we're out of sight of Dannis. Then I swing around so suddenly that she freezes where she stands. I allow myself to drop the tough-girl look. "C'mere." I tell her softly._

_For once the thought of trying to kill her never even enters my head. She's so short that I can actually drop to one knee in front of her and still be on eye level. I brush the hair back from her face like I used to do with Mareen. "Listen, I'm glad you followed me. I didn't want to say it in front of Dannis, but there's more to this than you think."_

_Whatever she was expecting me to say, this isn't it. Her brows knit together, and her frown becomes puzzled instead of hurt. I take a deep breath, and decide the truth is the only thing that's going to convince her. "I'm going after the other tributes. Alone, like I told you, but not because I think my odds are better. It's because I don't want you getting hurt when I do." Hurt by me, hurt by the monster, hurt when I make a mistake and they get past me, attack her. I've put Ames in enough danger, first with myself, then Garnet. . . . "I want you to stay safe. Wait for me here, and I'll come back for you when this is over."_

_She wants so much to believe me. I can tell. Hope and fear are struggling in her eyes. Finally, she nods, and I allow myself to smile a bit back at her. "What about Dannis?" she asks._

_"Don't tell him," I say. "He'd never believe it."_

_"No, I meant should I stay close to him?"_

_I hesitate. Dannis is everything I pretend to be—charming, suave, and absolutely deadly. But, beneath it, I sense something genuine. He could have killed both me and Ames and probably Garnet too in that attack. Instead, he chose to side with us. He kept my secret when he could have let the other Careers kill me. He's too wounded to gather his own food—he still needs Ames to take care of him. But even so, he might provide some sort of protection should they be attacked—he's nearly as good at throwing that spear as he is wielding it up close._

_"Yes," I decide. "Stay close. Unless he attacks, you understand? Then you run, Ames. You run as fast as you can and you don't stop or look back."_

_"Okay." Ames bites her lip and then, as I stand up, throws her arms around me. I hesitate, something very much like the gift roiling back up in me, and then it disappears and I hug her back. For the first time since these Games began, I know that I'm sane. "I'll get you home," I whisper to her, too quiet for the cameras to pick up. "I swear—I'm getting you home alive."_

_And then I turn around and walk away. Alone._

* * *

><p>It's nearly two hours before they can track down the Careers. There's not much left of the girl by now, and they have to know it, but nobody suggests they stop. Bren tries to persuade me to sit, but every time I do, I jump up seconds later and start pacing again, staring at the screen and trying not to kick the table or throw something at one of the TVs. It would almost be easier, I think, if they just found the Careers and got this over with instead of threading their way through this labyrinth. Twice, they have to turn back because of rising water that's eroded their path, and another time they somehow circle back into the same rock wall three times in a row.<p>

My wish that things would hurry up reverses itself, however, when the girl's screams—quieter ones now, the Careers messed with something in her throat—get close enough to hear without bouncing off the rock. Mareen's shuddering, trying to keep control and, for all the risk, I'm glad Kev's with her right now. She wouldn't have stayed sane this long if she was alone.

"Alright," she mutters when they finally peer around the corner and into the cavern that holds the two Careers and their victim. "I'm going in. I want you two to leave now, understood?"

"That's just stupid," Kev says. "What if this is their only way out? They could barrel straight into us, and we won't know it until it's too late."

Mareen hesitates, looks at Trek. He shrugs. "Looks like I'm crazy too, 'mana. Might as well go all the way."

"No." Mareen shakes her head. "No, I won't let you two—"

"Mareen? Can you stay sane without me there?" Kev's voice is quiet, but there's a power in it. A strength. "If you can, tell me, and Trek and I will walk away right now."

"I . . ." Mareen tries to lie. I can see that she does. But after a second, her shoulders go limp, and she caves in. "Alright, Kev. Alright."

"Let's do this, then." Trek draws his other short sword, Kev his knife, Mareen puts herself in front of my brother, and they sprint inside.

* * *

><p><em>At first, I try to fight the gift when it makes a reappearance. But it only takes a little thought to realize that that's a bad idea. A stupid one, really. I'm hunting Kronos along with two other tributes whose abilities I don't know anything about—I need to be strong enough to kill them, and my weapons are limited. A knife, a scalpel, and the gift. I'm hesitant about using it, but just like when a morphling gets his first hit after years of abstinence, resistance crumbles when I feel that heady sensation creeping through my veins again.<em>

_Within hours, I'm ready to kill._

_Unfortunately, there's no one for me _to_ kill. I'm making for that strange, opaque white mountain again, the one Ames says she thinks Kronos is living at, but there's no sign of him yet, and I'm still a day away at best. I make camp only a few hours after leaving—why can't these day lengths follow any sort of pattern?—and there aren't any faces in the sky._

_Just as the one of the suns is coming up, though, I jolt awake, a cannon shot echoing in my ears. It's close. Only a mile or two away from where I am, in fact. I fold up my sleeping bag and stuff it into my pack. When I look up again, I see Bren's finally sent me my first sponsor gift: a large bottle of water, filled with ice. I hold it against my fingers to counteract the already rising heat._

_I watch the sky carefully as I walk, so it's not hard for me to see where the hovercraft stops to pick up the body. I think about waiting, that there might be a trap or something waiting for me if I just rush in. But the gift is back full force, stronger than ever in fact, and it wants blood. I end up running to the site, praying that they were killed by another tribute, that that tribute's still waiting for me._

_When I finally get there, though, there's not much to see. The blood is nearly the same color as the sand, and most of it's been absorbed into the thirsty ground by now. The campsite's destroyed, and the tribute's backpack is open, the contents emptied out. A human killer, then; however clever the Capitol's mutts are, I doubt they can open a zipper. I circle around, looking for some clue, any sort of clue about their whereabouts, and finally spot a set of footprints heading away—the killer swept his tracks for about twenty feet, but I can see them past there. A smile lights up my face, and I start following._

_Time to hunt._

* * *

><p>They're on the Careers in an instant. The boy dodges, rolls away from Trek's swing, but Kev slashes through the girl's arm before she can move. Mareen glances at the girl they came to save—choking on blood, obviously dying—then joins him, eyes narrowed in concentration, sword held awkwardly in one hand. She's trying to walk a tightrope, fighting for her sanity and her life, but when the Career girl tries to strike at Kev with her mace, Mareen swipes straight at her face, forces her to pull the blow to shield herself. The girl tries to back off, get room for a good hard swing, but Mareen and Kev crowd her from either side, trapping her between them, each of them darting in whenever the girl watches the other for too long.<p>

"Help!"

Trek is thrown to the side as the Career boy barrels straight past him, springs for his sword on the floor. Mareen spins to help, but at that instant the boy grabs his weapon, sees her coming, and swings it—

Straight into the tortured tribute gasping on the floor.

The monster flames in Mareen's eyes, the longing, the need for blood. She pauses, stares at the death, then in a split second conquers herself, lunges. But the Career's already moved, seizes Trek, pushes the kid between them—

Mareen's sword goes straight through her ally.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Poor Trek; I always had a soft spot for him, even if he was overwhelmed by the flashier tributes.

And speaking of overwhelmed, that's the only word I can think of to describe the response Legacy's been getting lately! Thanks so much to readers and especially reviewers, old and new; you guys make my day.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21.

Her scream is distilled agony.

The Career boy keeps moving, spins away, pushes Kev from behind so that he falls to the side. His ally looks like she wants to keep fighting, but he's still trapped in panic mode—he grabs her by the arm and runs, leaving Kev and Mareen alone in the cavern.

Mareen's screams fade into whimpers. She holds Trek to her with one hand, the other still gripping the handle of the blade that's stuck through him. Blood's sprayed over her face, down her front, dripping to her feet.

"Mareen?" Kev edges over to her, cautious at first, but when he sees the monster's not there, he comes closer. "Mareen, I think he's de—"

"No." She jerks her head back and forth, breathing coming fast and ragged now. "No, he can't—he didn't even want to—tried to help—_he's not dead!"_

But even with the camera's awkward angles, I can see that Kev's right. The amount of blood there is too much. He's dead. Dying at best.

Two cannons sound. One for the District Six girl. The other . . . Mareen whimpers again, but as the echoes fade she finally accepts the truth. Her grip slackens, and the lifeless boy slides to the floor. Mareen looks like she wants to fall over too, but Kev grabs her by the upper arm, steadies her.

"My fault," she mumbles. "My fault Trek's dead. Hesitated . . . it just went right in . . . the blade just. . . ."

"Come on. We've got to get out of here before the Careers get over their shock and come back." Kev leads her out of the cavern and Mareen shambles behind him.

"My fault. My fault. My fault." It's like a song that she can't get out of her head, something she's mindlessly repeating over and over. Kev ignores it until they've put a bit of distance between them and the Careers, then turns to her, grips her shoulders.

"Mareen, it's _not_ your fault. He pushed Trek onto you. The scoreboards are going to list Trek under that boy's list of kills, and do you know why? Because_ he killed him. _Not you. Understand?"

Mareen stares at him blankly until Kev finishes talking, then lowers her head again. She's silent, but I can hear her chanting it in her thoughts.

Kev sighs, starts leading her by the hand. He must have realized that she's out of it, because he doesn't bother arguing or trying to calm her down.

When the scoreboards show again, their lists of stats and kills now updated for that disastrous fight, I see that Kev is right. The only kills my siblings have credited to them are the two Careers at that bloodbath. To be honest, I'm almost surprised at it; I understand Kev's point, logically at least. Even so, I can't help but think that Mareen has the right of it. No matter how many times she washes her hands, they'll never be clean of that blood.

* * *

><p><em>I stand at the side of the river, literally drenched in blood, adrenaline fading. The hovercraft follows the body floating downstream until it finally gets far enough ahead that it can pick up Kronos's corpse.<em>

_Three of us left now. Three. I feel the thrill, the excitement of being down to this. Somehow, against all the odds, it's just me here and Dannis and Ames back in that canyon. I think about heading there now, but the last of the suns, the faded orange one, is sinking fast, and I decide it's not worth it. Instead I sit back and let my body calm itself._

_Now that it's over, I'm surprisingly tired. I feel the blood drying, sticking my clothes to me, congealing in my hair, and I absently rub sand over my face to get it off my cheeks; fearsome as it looks,__there's no one I really want to look fearsome _for_, and besides it's so sticky it limits my mobility. I wish my pack and weapons weren't gone—I had a little bit of water in there that I could use to wash._

_With nothing else to really do, I curl up on the sand once the heat fades enough that I can stretch out on it without screaming in pain. The small orange sun doesn't give off nearly as much heat as the other, and it's half sunk anyways. I'm so tired that I don't mind what's left of its light as I shut my eyes, start to drift._

_I'm half asleep when I hear the cannon._

_I sit up, groggy and confused. A death? But there are only three of us left. Myself—obviously I'm still here. Dannis. I think about it, my groggy brain trying to process it. Wounded leg. Could someone have taken advantage of that, killed him while he was weak? No, we're down to three tributes. And that means there's no one left to kill him, right? So who else could. . . ._

"AMES!"

_The thought bursts through my brain to my lips and I'm suddenly upright, as awake as if I was jolted with electricity. No way she would have killed Dannis. No way I'm dead. With only three of us left, with no real reason to keep her around, he must have. . . ._

_"No, no, please Ames, you can't be—he can't have—" I'm standing up, pacing frantically, clutching at my hair as if afraid my brains are going to burst from my skull. No. It's a mistake, a lie. Dannis is dead. I'm dead. But not her, _not her!_ "No, Ames, no, it's just a Game, they're just playing a Game with my head. . . ."_

_But at that moment, the anthem starts to play, and I stare up at the sky, desperate, hoping, praying. The Capitol seal. The two people from earlier today. And then—_

_"NO!"_

_I'm reeling, falling backwards, staring at her innocent face, watching helplessly as it fades away. No. No, Ames, no, no, no, no. . . ._

_The words repeat in my head for endless hours, drowning out thought, coherency, understanding. I curl up in a ball, chanting it, thinking that maybe if I deny it long enough it'll be true, that she'll be alive and it'll all be a nightmare. But when my voice cracks, sinks into a whisper and then fades altogether, I can't pretend anymore._

_I told her to trust him. I told her to stay behind. I told her that she'd be safe. I told her she'd go home. Maybe he pushed the spear through her, maybe he's the one wearing her blood tonight._

_But I'm the one who killed her._

_The world is spinning to pieces around me, splitting, shattering, crumbling, and what's left of my soul is going with it. Half formed thoughts flicker through my head, mocking me, blaming me. Win but not survive. Get her home. I swear. Protect you. Save a kid. Destroy the Careers. Monster and gift. Deals with the devil. Killings in the night, killings in the day, killings with poison and scalpel and knife and blood. All my grand plans, all my sacrifices, all the death and for what?_

_I swore I'd protect her. And now she's dead and it's my fault. My fault. My fault. My fault._

* * *

><p>I flinch away from the memories, drag my mind to something else—anything else.<p>

"Shouldn't I be getting ready? For the interviews? Final eight and everything?"

Bren glances over at me, obviously surprised by me volunteering to leave the room. "No," he says, "not yet. They go by district order. And that means they have to get cameras to the families all across Panem. It'll be a day at least."

"Oh. Right."

I try to watch the screen again, but Mareen's there, thinking the same words that are echoing in my head. _My fault. My fault. My fault. My—_

I snap, fling myself at the door, barely make it into the hall before my leg gives out again I've collapsed on the floor, trying to think, to breathe. Ames. Mareen. Killed one, doomed the other. My fault. My fault. My fault—

"Liv?"

I look up, see Bren staring at me. I expect him to be confused or infuriated by my sudden meltdown, but instead his look is soft. Gentle. I shrink away from the pity.

"What are they going to do?"

"Kev's taking care of her. They should be fine—there's no way for the Careers to track them, after all."

"That's not what I meant," I say. I sit up, try to control my breathing, my expression. "I mean . . . how is _she_ going to come out of this?"

Bren sits down next to me, leans his head back against the wall. "I don't know. She might recover on her own. But odds are, she'll be just like you were at this stage. And that means that I'll have to send something to—"

"No!" Suddenly I'm animated again. I turn, grab Bren by the shoulders, stare him straight in the eye. "Don't you _dare_ do that! If she doesn't want to come out of it, if she wants to lock herself away, you let her, you understand? What you did—forcing me to—dragging me back. . . ."I blink the memories away, then glare at him, the words spilling out. "You got selfish and it tore me apart and I don't care what it costs Mareen _that won't happen to her._ Promise me!"

"Liv, I never wanted to—"

"Promise!"

For a second, I'm afraid. Afraid that he'll do it anyways, force her to become me. But then he nods, wraps an arm over my shoulders. "Alright. I promise."

I relax, trembling as hard as if I was standing outside in midwinter. He promises. It won't happen to her. I lean into him, hugging him, head on his shoulder. Bren's grip on me tightens and he pulls me close until the shaking stops. I realize that I'm crying again, from the relief or the pain I don't know. Funny. My eyes ran dry a long time ago—since that night with Ames. But here I am, tears tracing down my cheeks onto his shirt.

"Thank you."

* * *

><p><em>I don't move the next day.<em>

_I sit there in the arena, legs crossed, hands folded on my lap, perfectly still. I refuse to twitch. I refuse to cry. One of the Capitol's favorite scenes to replay, to discuss over delicacies and at parties, are tributes losing their allies—their reactions, their loss and pain. I won't give them that. Ames deserves more than to have her death turned into a spectacle. I have myself back under iron control._

_I've lost the Games. I've survived. But even that doesn't seem to be important compared to her. I remember her lopsided smile, with that one dimple. The way she had of running, almost floating over the ground, that was as natural to her as breathing. It's impossible to believe that that's gone. Because of me._

_I can think of only one thing to do now, one way to pull something worthwhile out of all this. And that's to stay here. They'll try to force Dannis and I together, but Dannis _can't_ walk, and I _won't._ Eventually, one of us will just die naturally and the other will win by default. Or they'll send in some catastrophe that kills one of us. But it won't be a dramatic fight to the death. I won't play their Game._

_To be honest, I decided on that hours ago. Now, I'm just sitting here in the sand, waiting to die. I've retreated deep into myself, so deep that I'm almost comatose, my thoughts and grief the only bits of life left in me. I don't notice the heat, the blood, or the sand burning through my clothes. I don't think of them. There's only me and my memories of a dead girl I promised I'd send home._

_And so I don't see the silver parachute coming until it lands directly in my lap._

_Bren. He barely sends me anything all Games, and he chooses _now,_ the moment I'm finally ready to die, to give me a sponsor gift. I guess he realized that it wouldn't be physical weakness or lack of brains that would take me down, but loss of will. If I had the energy, I'd fling it away, but I don't, so instead my head flops down, stares dully at what I've been given._

_Knives. Scalpels. Needles. Serums._

_Under the weight of all the grief, all the destruction and pain, something flickers. A monster. A monster who wants very much to survive, to hell with winning. I stare at it awhile longer, the idea slowly taking shape in my head._

_I can't save her. But I can destroy the bastard, the _friend_ who killed her. The one who slaughtered my last chance at redemption._

_If I'm damned, why shouldn't I embrace it?_

_I thought I'd only considered this for a minute, but when I stand up the suns are half-set. I waver on my feet, stumble and shamble like a drunk. At first I don't know if I can walk, then if I want to, but with every step I get steadier, pick up the pace._ _By the time the anthem plays, I'm running._

* * *

><p>I forbade Bren from forcing her to continue, but I didn't plan on Kev.<p>

He leads her through the tunnels for several hours, then finally stops in one of the caverns. Mareen just stands where he leaves her, not looking up, and I see him look at her, mentally calculate what his best option is.

"Mareen, I need your help."

Mareen doesn't look up, but she speaks for the first time since her chanting ended. "Help?"

"Yeah. I can't get my backpack off over my arm." Kev gestures at his injury, even though she's not looking. "Can you help me pull it free?"

At first, I think the ploy's too obvious, that Mareen's not going to do anything, but even though she's wavering where she stands, nearly tripping over her own feet, she manages to make her way over to him, fumbles until the backpack's lying on the ground. Kev winces once she's done—her movements are so clumsy, I think they hurt more than if he'd done it himself. He bends down, unlaces their sleeping bags, and sets them next to her.

"Hey. Unroll these while I pull the food out? I can't do it one-handed."

Mareen obeys again, her movements slowly smoothing out as she does, her mind forced out of its coma by the task at hand. I don't know how he does it, but Kev somehow manages to get her eating, and even keeps up a cheery monologue about how much he misses hot food. Mareen looks like she's not listening, but whenever Kev pauses, she stares at him, waiting mutely for him to continue. There's no real comprehension in her look; he could be talking about dull saw blades and she'd look at him just the same whenever he stopped speaking. But his voice seems to be helping her, giving her something to focus on.

Kev waits until Mareen's finished eating and she's laying down in her sleeping bag to become more direct. He sits next to her, holds onto one of her hands with his good one. "He wouldn't want you to do this, you know."

"Who?" Mareen looks shocked that she spoke, but then her face falls and she tries to flinch away from Kev's grip. She knows who. Of course she does.

"Trek. It's hard for you to believe, but he made a choice, Mareen. If he'd stabbed you instead of the other way around, would you want him to be acting like this?"

Mareen doesn't speak, but Kev is patient, lets the silence grow, until she finally shakes her head. Not as a response, but violently, like she can't allow herself to even listen to Kev. "He didn't want to come. I made him. So it's my fault if he got hurt."

"Made him? He volunteered, Mareen." Kev pauses, and when he next speaks, his voice is very slow, as if he's thinking about each word before he says it. "Do you know what he meant when he was always calling you 'mana?"

There's no answer, so after a minute, Kev answers his own question. "It's an expression some of the people in District 9 use. It means 'sister.'"

He pauses to let it sink in, and after a minute I hear Mareen's breath hitch oddly. She's finally crying. "Then I didn't just kill my friend. I killed my brother."

"No. Your brother thought you were worth dying for." Kev stiffly moves his bad arm, strokes what's left of her hair, and then she's sobbing, turning around and sobbing into his shoulder. I see Kev wince—she's clutching his hurt arm, and he's clearly exhausted—but his voice is steady and calm.

"He'd want us to win, you know. Wherever he is, he wants it to happen."

"I—I can't, Kev. I can't do it anymore." Mareen's voice suddenly sounds about ten years younger. "I want to go _home._"

Kev doesn't answer this time, just keeps on holding her until the worst of her sobs are over, and she lays back down. She's still clutching his hand.

Finally, just when she's starting to drift off, he leans in close to her and whispers: "Stay with me, Mareen. Keep fighting. I need you."

Silence. I worry that he's waited too long, that she's already asleep and missing his last best shot at persuading her. Then, not moving, just breathing it past her lips: "I'll try. For you."

* * *

><p>Bren leans back in his seat, looks over at me. "Well? Are you going to hold Kev responsible for this if she makes it out?" There's a trace of bitterness in his voice, but most of it is simple curiosity.<p>

"No. I mean, yes. I don't know." I pull myself away from the screens, force my mind to resurface. For some reason I want to cry again too—I really am going soft.

I choose my words as carefully and slowly as Kev did. "When you sent me the gifts . . . it was too late. I'd already lost. I may have survived, but there wasn't anything left to live for. Kev. . . ."

"He loves her."

"It's going to get them killed," I say. It's not the first time I've thought of it, but it is the first time I can say it aloud. The first time I can feel it without anger, just an indescribable sadness. "They can't both live. And they're willing to die for each other. Sooner or later the Gamemakers are going to try to use that against them."

Bren opens his mouth to say something, then seems to decide against it. There's nothing he can say that will change things, and he and I both know it.

We're interrupted by a knock on the door. The Avox watching over us opens it, and I see a Capitol attendant standing there, this one with mottled blue and white skin, so that he looks like he's underwater. "Miss Caldwell?" he pipes.

I don't want to make myself speak, so I just stare at him until he clears his throat and continues. "Even though the interviews won't be for several more hours, Catiline would like you to start preparing now. Petronius is waiting upstairs."

I hesitate, but what choice do I really have? I trade glances with Bren, then stand up. I give the screens one last look, swallow, and force myself to leave my siblings behind.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>So there you have it, ladies and gents! The reason Liv couldn't forgive Bren for so long. And how Ames died- let me just say that that scene was one of the hardest for me to write. Ames is loosely based on one of my sisters, so...

Also, special thanks to Emullz for convincing me to post today even though I _should_ have been writing essays. And to my anonymous reviewers, because I can't thank you guys personally; y'all are the best!


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22.

Something is wrong. Deeply wrong.

I stand in my plush Capitol bedroom, pacing back and forth, trying not to go frantic with worry. The door is locked. No sign of Petronius. Not even any Avoxes to contact, and when I try that microphone I use to order food, all I get is high-pitched feedback. From the clock, I see that it's been just over an hour since I was summoned out of the mentor room, but it feels like a year.

What are they doing? What sick, twisted Game have they devised now? And, more importantly, why am I even playing? I've surrendered, so why does Catiline _care_ whether I watch my siblings or not?

The pacing is doing more harm than good. My leg's already given out once—I've realized that if I lock it, it stays in place, but that doesn't keep it from getting sore. I should stop. But claustrophobia's set in, is digging its claws through me. I feel so energized, so full of nerves, that I'm surprised electricity isn't zipping between my fingers. I want—need—to punch something, throw myself at the door, get sick, kick and scream and beg until they just _let me out_.

No. Swallow. Breathe. Keep breathing. Keep pacing. I refuse to break down, not when they're watching me. I can't stay still, but my face remains smooth, my movements calm and methodical, at least until they're interrupted by another stumble. There's only one way for someone like me to win the Games, and that's with intelligence and patience, not brute force. Breathe. Keep breathing. Keep pacing.

Two hours, and I'm sure that I'm going to burst. Three and I'm feeling nauseous and only the fact that I haven't eaten in hours keeps me from throwing up. Four. My feet are numb, but the energy, the fear, aren't any less. The lingering hurts and bruises from my beating pound at my body, my leg feels like a hot poker was driven into it, demanding that I stop, but my head can't listen. Five, and now it's well into the dark hours of the morning, and I still don't even know if they're alive. Six, and the horrible thought strikes me: what if Catiline's doing this because they're already dead? What if he was going to get me prepped for the interviews, but then they died and he had me put up here to wait so that he could worry about the interviews and then deal with me? I know there are holes in the argument, that it doesn't make any sense, but I can't get the idea out of my head. Seven. My head is drooping, even my working leg stumbling, but I can't make myself stop pacing, can't even slow down. Somehow, in my head, the two have become linked. Keep moving, and they'll stay alive. Stop and . . . I'm hobbling, trying to limp on both legs, but I can't stop my walk to nowhere.

And then, just as the sun becomes visible, the door opens.

"Petronius!" I want it to be an accusation, but I'm so exhausted and thirsty that it comes out as a desperate croak instead. "Where are they? Are they alive? What—"

It's right then that I notice the Peacekeepers. They're standing there, one to either side, and they're glowering at me. I freeze, and Petronius sweeps into action.

"Now, now, my darling victor, we don't have time to dally! I've got to get you prepared for your interview, you know!" His tone is the same exuberant one he always has, but his eyes flick back and forth to the Peacekeepers behind him, and I get the message. They're there to keep him from saying anything. Whatever game Catiline's playing by keeping me in the dark, I'm still in it.

But Petronius is getting me ready for my interviews. And that means that one of them, at least, is still alive.

He hums as he works, instead of his usual chatter, and the tension is palpable. Arius isn't there to help him, and for some reason he's also moving at a slower pace than usual. He has me rub a sweet smelling oil over myself, then step into a long red dress with slits up the leg, black ribbons crawling up the skirt like vines. He steps close to tie a thin black belt—more a ribbon really—around me, straighten the draping sleeves. I take the chance to lean in, barely breathe the question: "Are they both alive?"

Petronius's humming doesn't falter. I wait, trying to remember how to breathe, not taking my eyes off of him, and finally see his head bob up and down.

Alive. They're both alive. I feel that horrible tension relax the tiniest bit, but my confusion only grows. If Mareen and Kev are alive, why am I still here, trapped and not allowed to know what's going on?

I don't risk anymore questions, though. Clearly, Petronius is too terrified to say more, and I doubt they'd let him know anything important. Unlike my previous interview, where I was whittled into shape in ten minutes flat, he takes his time, carefully works through my make-up and jewelry. When he spends twenty minutes fiddling with my chopped hair, I realize he's stalling. He once told me that he had cut my hair so that neither of us would have to worry about it—me getting it caught or used against me in the arena and him with arranging it every time he dressed me up. Now he's flipping strands back and forth, combing it back, pulling it forward, anything to keep busy.

Finally, he gives up on that, slips the silky black shoes on my feet, and there's nothing more for him to do. He and I sit at the side of my room, away from the Peacekeepers. Petronius keeps twitching, running his fingers over the cushions or unconsciously flexing the feathers on his head, but I'm absolutely still now. I should be exhausted. But, despite everything, I'm just . . . not. I'm deep in the Games now, and my health, my hopes and fears, can't be allowed to surface, because once again, I'm playing for more than my own life.

And this time, I won't lose.

* * *

><p><em>I track Kronos for hours.<em>

_The heat sinks through me until it seems as if my bones themselves are on fire, until I feel it radiating from my face, my hands. But I don't stop my steady, ground-eating progress, switching between a slow jog and a fast walk every thirty minutes. The gift is in full force now, filling me with delight, with adrenaline and glory. I'm a creature of the desert and sun, and I'm on the hunt._

_The mysterious killer has to be Kronos; the amount of blood at the campsite as good as screamed that the murderer enjoys violence as much as I do, but doesn't have the ability to hold it back, to control it. I remember him in the training room, the deadly look in his eyes as he and I competed to get in with the Careers. That describes him perfectly._

_Besides, tributes from the same District rarely fight if they can help it, much less hunt each other down, so I have a feeling the Gamemakers might be pushing us together just for the novelty of it._

_His tracks haven't altered, keep going straight forward, to the slopes of that pure white mountain. I don't know how I'm going to follow him when I reach the rock, but for now, his trail is as clear as an open road. Subtlety never was a strong point with this kid._

_Nobody else dies that day, and the only real surprise is another bottle Bren sends me when the first runs out, filled with ice like the last one. It melts slowly, preventing me from drinking everything at once, and I can't quite figure out why he's sending me those instead of just water. Is the slow melting telling me to ration? But ice takes up more space than water; maybe he's telling me it doesn't matter, that he can always send more. I go with the first option, squirting in a cold mouthful only once an hour, as best I can calculate it with this skewed time. If he's able to send me more, I figure he can tell me to drink up by sending me another bottle before I finish this one._

_Night falls and the anthem plays, the face of the District 3 girl—she must be the mysterious victim whose camp I found—gleaming briefly. With no way to see the tracks, I'm forced to stop. I pull out Dannis's sleeping bag, curl up inside, and try to think of a plan. But, really, what can I do? I don't know the turf, I don't know how far ahead Kronos is, and I don't know how he's doing. The best I can do is decide that I should attack from a distance if I can; as big as he is, there aren't many options if he gets close to me. Sinking a knife in him while he still doesn't see me is my best shot._

_The blood-colored, giant sun rises first the next morning, and I try not to take it as a bad omen. As soon as it's pushed up enough for me to see the tracks again I eat the last of the food I took from Ames and Dannis and set off. I should be sore and exhausted, but I'm just not; the stakes are too high. If Ames is going to win, if I'm going to kill Kronos, I need to be strong. Mind over matter. The mountain grows larger, almost as large as the real ones we passed through on the train to the Capitol, and the tracks don't turn away from it._

_There aren't foothills, no slow curves or anything to prepare me. One second, I'm running on hot red sand, so flat that you could plane a board with it, and the next I'm on white rock, sloping up under my feet._

_Only it's not rock. The first step I take onto the surface, I go into a nose dive, slide straight onto my face. My hands, then my elbows and knees, burst with pain as they land on the surface, and cold washes across my body._

_Ice. My fingers scrabble around, trying to find friction on the slick ground, quickly going numb. I don't know how they've done it, but somehow the entire mountain is made of ice, kept frozen in this desert by some trick of the Gamemakers. Cold envelops me, not strong enough to justify a mountain of ice in the desert, but chilly for all that. I see my breath puff out in front of me, freezing, as I carefully push myself back up._

_The tracks are gone._

_I stand there, trying to think of what to do now, and that's when I hear it. Water, flowing over rock, splashing and running. Of course. Kronos needs a source of water. And, however they're keeping this place cold, some of the ice is bound to melt, needs to run off somewhere._

_I follow the sound, moving more carefully now that I'm on the mountain. My boots seem to be designed for this sort of thing, gripping the glacier and then releasing but, considering my face plant, they obviously aren't perfect, and I don't want to die from something stupid like falling and cracking my skull open. I keep an eye out for caves or crevices, but the mountain seems to be a perfect cone, no dips or signs of melting in its smooth white surface._

So this was what Bren was trying to tell me with the ice in the bottle.

_The faint smell of copper and salt rises, and I cock my head a bit. Kronos can't exactly be using the river if it's poisoned. But I'm close now, close enough that the sound's becoming a roar in my ears, so I shrug to myself and keep walking. May as well see the damn thing and decide then._

_Red. That's the first thing I see. The river's a scarlet streak across this colorless landscape. Eager now, slipping and sliding a bit in my hurry, I cross over to it. My feet go out from under me again, but I fall right, manage to skid forward on my knees until I stop just short of the crimson 'water.'_

_I know it could be poisonous. Maybe sticking your hands in there will end up with them melting under you or freezing in place, or left in horrible pain or any number of other gruesome things. But I'm curious now, and there's no sign of Kronos, so I edge the toe of one boot in and, when nothing happens to it, gingerly tap my smallest finger along the surface. It's warm, as warm as a living body, and my finger doesn't seem hurt, so after a bit of hesitation, I stick my freezing hands inside, bathe them in the heat._

_Then I stop. Copper. Salt. Warm. _Red.

_"It's not water," I whisper. "It's _blood._"_

_A smile slowly grows across my face. I raise my hands from the water, trace the dripping first two fingers of each hand across my cheeks, right under my eyes. I feel the blood smear there, drying like war paint._

_A cannon goes off. My head jerks up, staring up the river, the direction that it came from. I stand, walk towards it to investigate._

_It's not Kronos's body. I can see that before I even get close. Instead, it's a thin, stringy boy that I vaguely recognize as being from District 11. I stop for a minute, wondering if there's a chance that Kronos is still here, but there's nobody in sight, and in this bare landscape there aren't really places to hide. Maybe I've had it wrong the whole time. Maybe this kid was the one to kill District 3's girl, then somehow died here on his own._

_The hovercraft appears to take the body, but I reach it first. I want to examine it before they take him back. I squat down next to the corpse, and see blood leaking from the skull. Could he have slipped, maybe, and hit his head wrong?_

_I flip him over—hard to do with no traction from the ice—and my blood freezes as the ice never made it do. There, across the back of his skull, is a deep, wedge shaped wound, one that I've seen often enough in District 7. An axe. Kronos._

_There wasn't enough time for him to run. I'd have seen him. And every instinct is screaming that this is a trap, that he's hidden somewhere, but there's nowhere for him to be, no place that would conceal you. . . ._

_Except the river._

_The gift seems to act of its own free will. I drop, roll, skid across the ice just as the blood-covered axe buries itself in the ice where my head was. I kneel two feet away from Kronos. And he's covered in blood._

* * *

><p>They come for me hours later.<p>

Petronius's nervous energy finally burned out, and he's napping in his chair, not even moving when I stand, but even though I'm sore and exhausted and starving like I haven't been since the Games, I'm still as tense as a hunted animal. I can feel the trap, know that it's lurking just out of sight, but I don't know what it is, how to stop it.

The Avox that leads me away is a short, glowering sort of man. A Peacekeeper is with him, and when I walk down the corridor, he steps behind me, gun at the ready, just waiting for me to give him an excuse.

The room they take me to is the same one that the mentor interviews were in, the same too-perfect depiction of a District 7 home, the same creepy, synthetic fire. But my eyes are only on the TV screen. The District 4 girl is there, chasing after the three-way alliance. Iana, the older girl, is sprinting, pulling Chel by the hand, and that District 12 boy is coming behind them, a dripping gash on one arm. They try to go down one corridor only to find it caved in, have to turn back to the passage they were coming from. The cameras cut over to the District 2 boy, also chasing, but there's no sign of my siblings.

"Excuse me."

I spin and see a metallic, copper-skinned woman with sleeked back gold hair—not blond, but literally gold—sitting on the couch. "Liv Caldwell?"

"Where's Caesar?" I snap. The woman's silver lips thin.

"It would be unfair for District 7's family members to be interviewed by Caesar when the other Districts aren't. I'm taking his place."

Her wide green eyes look especially freakish compared to her glimmering appearance just because they're so _normal._ She raises an eyebrow at me, clearly daring me to challenge her, but I know I don't dare. If Catiline's done anything today, he's proven that he's in firm control. And, no matter how badly I want to challenge him, I refuse to gamble with my siblings' lives.

Instead, I sit where she motions for me to go, on the other side of the couch from her, and straighten primly in my seat, pretending I'm _not_ afraid, that he _hasn't_ gotten to me, that this is all safe and normal and I'm not worried at all. She motions for the cameras to start rolling, and I feel the smirk take its normal position on my face.

"Miss Liv," the woman tweets, her voice completely altered from the hard-nosed reporter who was talking to me seconds ago. "It's so good to see you again! Such a special treat—I know we in the Capitol just can't get enough of you. And just think, if one of your siblings manages to survive, I could be talking to the both of you next year!"

"Well, not quite," I say just as sweetly. "We'll be talking to Caesar about the Games and our tributes. But without my family in there, we won't be able to do these light human-interest pieces." I give her my most genuine smile as I say it.

She gives a false titter, glaring daggers at me all the while, but I don't respond to it. There's still no sign of my siblings on the screen.

"Why don't you tell us what you think of how your siblings are playing the Game?" she simpers. "I have to say, their style is certainly very . . . different from your own. Are you sure they can win this, as nice as they are?"

_So we're playing that way, are we?_ I beam at her. "Positive. They—"

They're on the screen. My mouth snaps shut, and for all my acting, all my pretending that everything's alright, I can't do it when it's so clearly _not._

They're sprinting, heedless of the noise they're making. Mareen's already ditched her larger pack, and Kev looks like he might do the same in a minute. They're breathless, afraid, not even looking where they're going, and their sheer panic stabs deep into my gut, nearly makes me double over.

But didn't the cameras show the Careers chasing the _other_ alliance?

They take a right, and I realize they're near the fire cavern. It should be blocked off after the cave-in, but then I see the water's carved a hole where they couldn't, broken through the rubble. Steam's gushing from the cavern now, like smoke from the gates to hell.

The shot switches back to District 12—Devon—and his team just in time to catch Iana stumbling. She lands wrong, her ankle twisting, and she cries out in pain as she tries to stand. Chel bends over to help her, but Iana pushes the girl away. "Get out of here!"

Cut to District 4. She's sprinting through the caverns, flail at the ready. Thirty seconds and she turns a corner, sees Iana sitting there, allies already gone. She barely slows her stride to whip the flail through the girl's neck, the cannon going off seconds later.

And that's when I realize that District 2 isn't with her.

Cut to District 2. He's not chasing the other three. He's never been chasing the other three, it was all just my own assumptions and the stupid cameras. He's after my siblings, after _their_ blood, not Devon's alliance. But why? Why did they split their forces, why now?

Cut to Mareen and Kev, who are hesitating at the cavern entrance. Footsteps approach and they spin, prepare to fight—

Only for Devon and Chel to round the corner.

The four of them stand there, shocked, and I see the same horrible realization forming in their eyes. Both of them getting chased the Careers, both backed up to a dead end, together, where they're easy to kill. They weren't just hunted.

They were herded.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Credit to the fantastic EStrunk for all her help!

Also, if you want a visual of what I picture for the river, look up 'Blood Falls, Antarctica' on your search engine of choice. The real falls are red because of iron oxide residues, not real blood, but I figure the Gamemakers would want something a bit less mundane than that.

Somehow saying this never gets old (although reading it might...): reviewers are fantastic and phenomenal. Thanks so much to each and every one of you, and I hope this and the next couple of chapters live up to expectations!


	23. Chapter 23

As always, EStrunk deserves much more credit than I can give her. But that won't stop me from trying!

Chapter rated M for violence.

* * *

><p>Chapter 23.<p>

"Keep rolling," the reporter hisses to the rest of the room. "This is fantastic footage!"

For once in my life I don't care how I appear on camera, how the audience or Catiline perceives me. I'm not even really in the room. Physically, maybe, but my mind is in the caverns with my siblings and their competitors. The noise of the crew and interviewers is muffled, as if I'm hearing it through a wall.

"What do you think?" Devon asks Mareen. "Fight or flight?"

Mareen doesn't question the sudden alliance or hesitate over their options. "Flight." She wrinkles her nose, as if fighting a bad smell, and plunges into the steam, heading toward the hole, followed quickly by Chel and Kev—Chel holding her nose; there really must be some stink in the cavern—and Devon bringing up the rear. The hole is only a crawlspace, so small that they have to pull themselves through by their elbows and feet, and there aren't any cameras inside, so I lose sight of them. My breathing stops altogether, waiting for them to come through. Steam can burn you worse than boiling water, not to mention the risk of suffocation or getting trapped.

But nearly a minute later, first Mareen and then Kev and the others reappear on the TV screen—standing, the hole must widen out at some point—and look around the cavern. The flames are low right now, flickering on the ground beneath the shelf they're standing on, but not giving off their fiery glory like they did before.

Relief doesn't last long. First District 4, then District 2 arrive, panting, at the scene. "What we planned?" the boy asks, nodding at the cavern. Inside, Mareen grabs Kev's sleeve and starts pulling the group down the cavern. By some trick of the acoustics, they can still clearly hear everything that's going on outside.

"Go!" the girl snarls. "Circle around!" Without missing a beat, she drops to the ground and begins to belly-crawl through after them.

Like the District 6 girl before her, Chel suddenly stops her retreat and stares at the ground, then lowers her hand and winces at the burn. The floor's begun to heat up. Devon looks at it, and his face blanches under all the dirt. They've figured it out now. The flames are returning.

"Come on!" he mutters to the group. Mareen, however, turns and plants a hand on his chest. She looks back and forth between the cavern entrance and the group, and she's figuring out the same thing I already know, that once the Career is through they won't stand a chance of outrunning her. That they need to outrun her if they're going to get out of the cavern before her partner reaches them from the other side, cuts off their escape. My blood freezes as I realize what she's going to say.

"Take Kev."

"No! Mareen you can't, YOU CAN'T!" I'm standing, shouting, screaming, but she can't hear me, and I realize there's no hidden plan this time, no going back, no miraculous help that will make her come out of this—she's going to do it.

Her voice is completely steady. "You get my brother out of here, ally with him. And I'll buy you time to get away."

He grimaces. "There are only six of us left. Alliances aren't going to last long."

"I know. But as long as you can."

"Mareen—"

"Hush, Kev." Her eyes are locked with Devon's, intense and commanding. "We don't have much time. My life for his."

He hesitates just a second longer, then nods. "Done."

Mareen sighs briefly, closes her eyes, and echoes him. "Done. Go."

Chel starts to tug on Kev's arm, pull him down the cavern. The Career's almost out, you can hear her scrabbling past the rocks, almost reaching where the tunnel widens, but Kev doesn't want to move, struggles as the girl pulls him away. "You said you'd live, Mareen! You said you'd try to survive!"

Mareen watches him struggle and, for a second, I see her heart break. She turns to the cavern mouth. Devon turns around and grabs my brother with his good arm, throws him over his shoulder, sprints for the exit. At that second, the District 4 girl leaps from the tunnel, poised to ward off an ambush.

"Don't do it Mareen!"

She draws her short sword as the girl walks toward her. Her voice carries through the cavern, unafraid.

"I love you, Kev."

The flames burst back to life as my brother and his allies disappear.

* * *

><p><em>Move!<em>

_I throw myself to the side again as Kronos wrenches his axe from the ice, swings. The slick ice carries me as I roll, puts me far enough out of range that I can stand, draw my knife, face him._

_"Didn't think you'd survive this long," he sneers._

_"Didn't think you could think." Banter's a stupid part of the Games, but it's almost always there. We circle like feral animals, looking for weakness, each trying not to slip on the ice, not to break eye contact. Blood drips from his body, coats everything but his brown eyes, so that it looks like he's been skinned alive._

_He lunges, axe a blur, and I barely duck in time, slash my knife as I go under his arm. A thin, shallow score, but he howls with pain, and my knife comes away bloody. The attack carries me too far, though, and I spin, fall onto my elbows, pick myself up just as he recovers._

_Back to circling._

_He attacks again, swinging at my legs. I jump over the axe, but that damn ice keeps me from landing right, and I go skidding, this time on my knees—the cold and adrenaline numb them too much to feel pain._

_Think!_

_Hard enough to win in a fair fight. Ice is hopeless._

_And then I see Kronos wobble, and it strikes me: the ice is dangerous for him too. If I can turn it against him, use it as a weapon—_

_He attacks as fast as ever, but this time I work with the ice, skid backwards, use the extra momentum from the ground to keep me out of his longer reach. Then, just as suddenly, I pivot, spin myself forward and in, too close for him to use the axe. My knife stabs deep into his shoulder before he can react._

_YES!_

_He howls, pushes me away, and I let the ice carry me, skate out of range. The axe drops, his arm too hurt to use it, and now we're both weaponless, facing each other, me unwounded, him with that knife hilt sticking out of him._

_His eyes are still glaring at me from under the blood, maddened by pain. I smile, riding high on the gift. "That's right," I growl. "Who wasn't going to survive?"_

_He attacks. Stupid, gloating, I wasn't expecting it. I dance away, but he grabs my pack, tries to haul me back. Instinctively, I dip my shoulder, wrench myself free, and spin around, pirouetting, barely staying up as my momentum overshoots. He tosses it away with a snarl._

_We're both breathing hard now, no point trying to hide it with the huge white puffs coming from our mouths and noses. The ground's pink with dripping blood, and I realize that Kronos weaponless is still much more dangerous than I am. Ice doesn't matter, if he tackles me I won't have enough space to maneuver while he twists my neck._

_How can I attack if I don't close with him? But he's too big for me to bring down, too fast not to see me coming._

_On normal footing._

_I don't stop to think, give any warning of what I'm planning to do. I lunge, skid onto my knees, lock my arms and _push_ on his waist._

_He falls backward, throwing his arms out, and I hear something crack. But I'm still sliding, seize him by the shirt to stop myself, and then we're both skidding across the ice, slowing down, but not fast enough because the ground's turning scarlet and warm and wet, and I just have time to register what it is before he wraps his good arm around my chest, rolls, and we plunge into the blood river together._

* * *

><p>The flames arc through the air, twisting together, forming shapes and forms as they dance over Mareen and the Career. Both of them hesitate, watching each other.<p>

She can survive this. I know Mareen can make it if she'd just let the monster out. But by her face, I know that's not going to happen. For better or worse, she won't let that side of her out. Not after Trek.

"Touching," the girl snarls. "Sacrificing yourself for your little brother. It'd get you a lot of sponsors if you were actually going to live through this."

Mareen doesn't bother with the banter. She looks like she's about to be sick, and her grip on the sword is awkward, not at all the fluid grace she held it with while using the monster, as if it was an extension of her hand. But her stance is firm. She won't allow this girl to come near Kev.

The Career lunges forward, and Mareen tries to dodge. I recognize the feint, but Mareen doesn't and the mace changes direction before she can block. She has to drop flat on the hot ground to dodge, and I see the sword fly from her hand as she lands, skid away. She tries to crawl for it—

Crunch.

Mareen screams and I shriek with her as the Career yanks her flail from the back of my sister's leg. She keeps moving forward, though, seizes hold of her weapon, swipes at the Career's shin to make her back off. Her face is a mask of pain and heat and tears, her leg's dripping blood, bent all wrong, but her eyes are full of fire—not madness, but absolute determination, the sort you see in a mother bear protecting her cub.

The Career backs up just an inch, and somehow Mareen launches herself up, stands precariously on one leg.

"I . . . will . . . not . . . lose."

The Career girl laughs, the sound echoing across the cavern. "You really think you can _survive_ after all this?"

Mareen doesn't answer. I don't know where she's finding the willpower to stand, because that leg is clearly broken, and her face is going white, even with the growing heat. The Capitol girl swings her mace back and forth, waiting, deciding to let the pain and bloodloss weaken Mareen first. That suits Mareen just fine.

The flames roar again, start to make their way up the cliff, and the girl darts a quick look at them. There's just a flicker of fear in her eyes as she takes in how hot it's getting, and then it grows as she realizes that the distance back to the crawlspace, the time it will take to get through it, is too much. Her only way out is through Mareen.

She looks back at my sister, panic starting to rise as she figures it out. Mareen smiles at her. "Who said anything about me surviving?"

"No!"

The girl lunges, swinging her mace, but terror makes her sloppy and Mareen dodges. She tries again, and Mareen ducks under her arm, dives, seizes her by the shoulder. They struggle, but Mareen's free hand comes up, embraces the girl, wraps around her so tight that the girl can't shake her loose. Mareen's bad leg gives out and then they're falling backwards, my sister underneath.

There's a silver glitter, the blade arcs around, high in the air, and then Mareen wraps that arm around the girl's back as well, yanks, and the sword punches straight through the Career's ribs.

They land, and for a second neither of them move and I think they're both dead. But then I see Mareen's hands come up, slowly push the bigger girl off her.

A cannon sounds as she manages to sit up, drag herself away. She makes it to the tunnel wall, as far away from the cliff face as you can get, but then stops, face contorted from the pain. She knows there's no way she's getting out in time.

Her hands go to her leg, as if they want to quench the bloodflow, then stop as she realizes how stupid that is. If she's going to die, bleeding out is much less painful than burning. Her rapid, panicked breathing calms a bit as she sits there, waits. She slumps against the wall and leans her head back, body relaxed, as if she's about to go to sleep.

The flames are growing now, already licking at the Career's body, and Mareen shudders as they get closer to her. She shuts her eyes, but the look on her face is peaceful, content. She takes a deep breath, then calls out in a quiet, clear voice that somehow carries over the flames: "Livy."

For a split second I have the disorienting sensation of watching my own face flash onto the screen as the cameras in the room focus on me, but then they flick back to Mareen, still slumped there, and my face is relegated to a small box in the corner of the screen. She's so calm.

"I know you're watching this, Livy. I need to tell you that . . . it's not your fault. It never was." Tears are running down her cheeks. Her face contorts with pain as the flames start to lick through her clothes, dance around her fingers like living things. She grits her teeth, but her eyes stay closed. Her voice holds just a hint of a question, the same pleading tone she'd use as a kid when she crawled into my bed after a nightmare. "Stay with me? Please? Just until . . . until it's over?"

They're climbing higher now, lacing through her hair, and she arcs her head back, gives a faint cry of pain. "Livy!" she gasps, begging for help, and I forget that she can't see me, that we're miles apart. I stand up and reach my hand towards the screen, trying to touch her, to hold her, to let her know that it's all going to be ok, that it'll be over soon, that she's won. Not survived, no, but won.

And maybe it's a coincidence, or maybe she's deluded by the pain as her body starts to burn, but her hand lifts too, closes around the air as if she's grasping mine. She shudders, but her face goes quiet and then she's hidden by the flames.

A cannon goes off.


	24. Phoenix

As always, a thousand thanks to EStrunk!

Music recommendation: 'Finding Beauty,' by Escala. You could read the phone book while listening to that song and go on an emotional journey. I figure I need all the help I can get, so . . . .

This chapter is (obviously) shorter than the others. It's also named. That's all because this is much more of an experimental, artsy bit of writing, almost an interlude instead of a chapter. _Hopefully_ that comes off well, but I'm counting on y'all to tell me if it didn't. Enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Phoenix.<strong>

"Miss Caldwell? Miss Caldwell?"

My hand slowly lowers, and I turn to find the reporter on one side of me, the camera practically shoved in my face on the other. The woman is breathless with excitement. "Miss Caldwell, what would you say your reaction is to your sister's losing? To her final words? To the lower odds for your District?"

I'm silent, stunned, barely able to move or think. Like when Ames died, I've retreated deep into myself, shut out the world around me. Mareen. Dead. The words don't seem to fit together. My beautiful, brilliant, laughing sister . . . dead.

I expect to feel pain. Or maybe anesthetized numbness. But instead there's darkness. Silence, but it's not the terrifying blankness of despair. It's the same silence you hear in the woods after a thunderstorm, before the animals start to come out. The dark you see after the last of a brilliant sunset slips from the sky. The world has paused around me, and as I stand there, trying to take it in, to wrap my mind around it, I realize that there's something else there in the emptiness.

A spark. A flicker of light, so different from the flames that devoured Mareen that I don't even think it deserves the same name.

"She didn't lose." My voice is quiet, awestruck. I don't want to speak too loud. I'm afraid I'll blow out that precious spark, shatter the silence. "She didn't lose."

* * *

><p><em>The Capitol crowd surges to its feet, applauding, almost rioting, screaming my name as I march onto the stage, my head held high. My smirk is in place, my steps firm and strong. I find it faintly amusing that they love this defiance out of me even when I'm using it to show how utterly I despise them.<em>

_I'm not required to talk, fortunately. I don't think I could keep myself from spewing hatred at them. Instead, I just shake Caesar's hand and sink into my plush chair to watch the replay of the Games. As I watch the reapings, see Dannis and the other Careers volunteer, then myself and Kronos chosen, and then Ames, my stomach starts to churn inside of me, uneasiness rising under the calm façade. I force myself to remain seated, the same thoughts and reassurances I've repeated to myself ever since I came out of the arena running through my head._

_I'm a hero. A victor. A winner. So I survived instead of dying like I'd planned. But that wasn't my fault, was it? What I did, it was always to save a kid. To save Ames. That's the right thing to do, isn't it? I did everything I could to save her, and I can't blame myself that it didn't work. Besides, no matter what it costs you, no matter what sins you have to commit, that sort of goal is too good for them to be truly wrong, isn't it?_

_Isn't it?_

_I feel the gift still inside me, pulsing like a living thing, and that _is_ something to worry about. I don't know how I'm going to control it when I'm back in District 7—I'll be like that alcoholic Dad and I helped to go through withdrawal. Worse. Maybe there's some way I can wean myself off of it. Or distract it or fight it or get some fancy Capitol psychiatrist to take care of it. I'll think of something._

_The Games themselves start to play. I settle myself back in my thronelike chair, steeling myself to see what story the Gamemakers are going to try to tell about me this year. A girl who came from nothing, who tried to save an innocent kid instead of herself and, when she fell short of that, made sure that none of the Careers would be able to celebrate at least. They can't show that sort of a story, of course, but I have to wonder how they're going to try to spin what I did into something Capitol-ish. There's no way they can pretend that I was another of their pawns; no way they can disguise that I won the Games._

_But that's not what they show._

_I see an innocent girl run into the Cornucopia and become a murderer._

_I see her become so paranoid, so enthralled with her new abilities, that she kills a traumatized boy._

_I see her choose to kill two kids rather than save one._

_I see her abandon a girl—a friend—who trusted her to die._

_They've made it into a lie. They show me as heartless, destroying everything I come across, pretending that that was my entire goal! They're pretending I'm a monster, that I'm some sick creature, and it's not like that at all!_

_Isn't it?_

_My face and body are perfectly still, but suddenly I'm reeling, my thoughts illuminated by some hated burst of understanding. Maybe I did it to save a kid, maybe I honestly wanted to protect Ames, but my intentions don't matter—what does are my actions. And all I can see of myself is torture, betrayal, and murder. Cold-blooded, without a hint of remorse or hesitation. No, worse. I wasn't emotionless, I enjoyed it. Every time. I see each 'necessary' step leading to another, myself slowly changing from hero to villain. I had bragged that these would be my Games, that the Capitol would play by my rules, and in the end they did. But by that time it didn't matter._

_Because I'm just as twisted as them._

_I feel something in me trying to turn, to run, but whatever else I am, I'm not a coward. I stare at the screen, forcing myself to look at the images of what I've become. I killed children. I tortured. I betrayed those who trusted me._

_The gift—the gift! I called that thing that made me bathe in blood, laugh at torture, a _gift_—is shriveling inside me, dying under the horror, like a fire losing its oxygen. I feel it going out, force it away from me with every ounce of willpower I have left, and when the last spark of it disappears, I realize that it's gone forever. No more bloodlust. No more hurting. No more desire for it._

_But when it's burned away, all there is left inside of me is a great empty hole where I used to be, the ashes gone cold and scattered in the wind. I'm a living, breathing shell, but in the end there's no more life in me than in Ames or Dannis or Kronos or the twenty other kids that—directly or indirectly—were my kills. My fault. Their ghosts are standing over me, and I'm the opposite of them because I'm not a soul without a body, I'm a body who has snuffed out her own soul._

_Somehow I make myself watch, eyes blank, expression unmoving. I see Garnet die. Kronos. Ames. Dannis. I feel every blow as if it were on my own body, but I refuse to look away. I refuse to blanch or cry. I deserve all of this and more._

_When it's finally over, I stand up. My movements are automatic, and I don't even remember that I'm supposed to be crowned until I see Catiline and Snow walk up to the stage, side by side, perfectly in step. I see their eyes glitter at me, both of them, and I realize that they despise me almost as much as I do. Whatever I did, hero or villain, I tried to defy the Capitol, tried to play them, and that is unforgivable. Three hours ago, I would have been thrilled at my success._

_Now I feel nothing._

_They place the crown on my head together, and I stand there, facing the crowd, unable to pull any expression onto my face. I'm a survivor. I'm a murderer. I'm a monster._

_I'm a victor._

* * *

><p>The reporter looks puzzled at my answer, so I shake my head, repeat it one more time just for emphasis: "She didn't lose."<p>

They changed my Games around in the films, disguised all my good intentions and made me into a monster. But there's no way that they can do that to Mareen. No way they can pretend that she was anything like me. Because she wasn't some high flung idealist with honorable plans and intentions that only lasted as long as they were convenient. She was just a terrified, innocent teenager who was determined that, no matter what happened, she'd remain human. And somehow, impossibly, she did. She took down two Careers, cared for the helpless kids that nobody else would protect and, in the end, she sacrificed herself for her brother. The Capitol can't hide her, can't make her into anything other than what she was—a hero.

She's won.

The interviewer's asking me something else. I force myself to focus on her again. "Did you expect that much fight out of your little sister? For her to go as far as she did?"

"No," I say honestly. "No, I never would have thought she had this in her." To win but not survive. To both fight off the enemies around her and those in her own head. To die not just for Kev but for what she believed in. No, I didn't think anyone could have done it, not even Mareen.

The woman seems dissatisfied. Her metallic lips thin, and I realize that my usual disdain, my charming arrogance that makes me so attractive to the Capitol audience, has disappeared. I've used it for so long, armored myself with it, clung to that façade when there was nothing else left in me. But now, I can't seem to wish it back.

"One more question, Miss Caldwell, and then I'll let you get back to your_ remaining_ tribute," she says. I'm surprised when I don't react. Nothing this woman says can hurt me any more. "Your sister spent her last moments talking to you—it had me absolutely enthralled watching her final moments, the interaction between the two of you as she died and you couldn't answer her cries for help. What would you say to her if she could still hear you?"

What would I say to her?

That tiny spark becomes a flame.

I've been empty so long, seared with the knowledge that there is no coming back from what I've done, no redemption from the ashes I live in. The ember is almost painful to hold, but I feed it carefully, keep kindling it, because I can't let it die, not after what Mareen sacrificed to re-light it. I recognize what it is now, so precious, so brilliant.

Hope.

I remember the conversation I had with her the night before she went into the arena. How she admitted that she wanted to be like me. That she had always tried to impress me. Live up to the standards she thought I was setting for her. And in the end, she surpassed me in everything. More compassionate, more sacrificing, more forgiving than I ever was, to her or to anyone.

I can't bring her back. The blaze of light that was my sister is gone forever. But I can honor the legacy she ignited in me. I can rise from the ashes and pay tribute to an innocent girl who went beyond anything I could have asked of her, who only wanted one thing from me, and thought she could never earn it.

"I would tell her how proud I am."


	25. Chapter 25

As always, huge props to the splendid EStrunk for all her beta help

And to all reviewers, old and new- thank y'all so much for your response! I've been walking on cloud nine all week thanks to you guys.

* * *

><p>Chapter 25.<p>

It takes me a minute to realize that the cameras are going down, that the reporter is snapping orders, her former ditziness vanished now that she's off the air. I guess the interview's over.

The awe is fading just enough for my thoughts to clear. I'm able to turn from Mareen to the situation around it. To how I was kept prisoner and Catiline set this whole thing up. Because there's no doubt in my mind that it was set up. Slowly, piece by piece, I look at what happened and realize that my work isn't done yet. I need to do one more thing before I can allow myself to grieve.

I go up to the interviewer and tap her on the shoulder. The glare she shoots at me says quite plainly that she doesn't want me there, but I jump in before she can shoo me away.

"I need to speak to Catiline."

She laughs. "You think I can get you permission to talk to him? I'm not that important, girl."

"He gave you that script. Made you ask me those questions." My voice is still calm. I'm not looking for a fight. "He picked you especially to make things harder for me. But whether you talk to him or not doesn't really matter, now." I look up at the ceiling, and address the hidden cameras I know the room is laced with. "You know I'm asking for you. I'd like to speak with you about our deal."

The woman is gaping at me as if I'm insane. I raise my eyebrows at her. "Pass it on if you can. And in the meantime, I'd like some privacy."

She huffs and spends an extra five minutes sweeping around the room, deliberately knocking things over and making as much noise as she can. But when I just sit there and refuse to let it faze me, she finally stomps out, slamming the door behind her.

Almost as soon as she's gone, the door bursts open, but it's Bren who storms in, not Catiline. His look is desperate, afraid, and it's clear from the way he's watching me that he's afraid I've gone over the edge—that the insanity that's hovered at the edges of my mind for over a year might finally have won out. I give him a nod, but my composure stays steady, and I don't meet his eyes. If I look either right or left, I'm going to break down, and I can't do that. Not when Mareen would have wanted me to do this one last thing. "Bren. Sit down."

He does, still watching me like I'm a bomb that might go off any second. His voice has a compassionate note to it that I haven't heard since before the Games began. "Liv? Are you . . . how are you feeling?"

I grimace. My sister just died. How does he _think_ I'm feeling? But I can't let the grief take over. Not because of some misplaced sense of pride or even a desire to fight the Capitol by reacting differently than they expect. No, I need to live up to the standards Mareen set, and that means being strong when it's called for. But it also means being honest.

"I've been better," I admit. "But there's something I need to do. I'm speaking to Catiline."

Bren opens his mouth, but I speak up before he can try to talk me out of it. "Tell me something. I was trapped in a room without the TVs right up until my interviews, so I didn't see. Could Catiline have made this . . ." My voice chokes off. No! I've got to make it through this! I swallow and keep going. "Did he make this happen?"

"Liv, even if he did, you can't go looking for revenge with Kev—"

"It's not about revenge," I say honestly. "Nor about trying to spite him. I just want to make sure I have my facts straight. He was supposed to protect them. Could he have prevented this?"

I accidentally meet his gaze for a second, and he lowers his eyes before I can. I nod, breathing deeply, forcing myself to stay steady. I'm not reassuring myself that I can do this. I am promising Mareen that I will.

"Do you want me to leave?"

I realize that I've shut my eyes, jerk them open to look at Bren. "What?"

"You just . . . things are complicated enough between you and Catiline without adding me to the mix. If you think you'd do better without me there. . . ."

"No, I—I want you to stay." To be honest, now that he's here, I don't think I can do this without Bren to watch my back. At the same time, though. . . . "But if you could—I need you to let me do the talking here, alright? No matter what he or I say, I want you to stay out of it."

"Liv. . . ." He looks at me, and I realize that he already knows what I'm going to do. I shake my head and close my eyes again. I don't want to think about this. I'm afraid I'll lose my nerve, shatter like glass, if I don't keep holding myself together.

At last, at long last, the door opens again, and this time it really is Catiline who glides inside.

Emotions I can't even name jolt through me like electricity. It's worse than when I watched Destiny kill an innocent kid. Worse than when Ames died. Worse even than when I found Dad. But funnily enough, whatever these feelings are, they're not the blazing, out of control fury and grief I felt then. Those are there, of course, but they're . . . focused. Maybe that's what I'm feeling; my whole array of emotions, grief and love and hatred and triumph have been drawn together by the same utter determination that drove Mareen to stand on a broken leg and fight.

This man killed my sister, and suddenly I know quite simply that there is no power in heaven or earth that will keep me from bringing him down. Not out of vengeance or even justice, but because I will _never_ allow him to hurt another innocent child. I. Will. Not. Allow. It.

He watches me for a moment, eyes glittering, nightmarish face not giving anything away, and then his lips stretch into a mocking smile and he sweeps across the floor, settles into a chair. On the surface, his look is politely curious, but underneath I can sense the malice, the delight at my grief combined with . . . is that fury? Perhaps I'm imagining it—but no, there's a tightness to his sculpted face that definitely wasn't there before. Mareen. Dead tributes aren't supposed to win, not by anyone's definition. Even mine.

He waits for me to speak, and I think about holding out just because of that. Then I remember that I'm done with these Games. My voice is quiet, strong, surprising even me. "The deal's off."

He doesn't look surprised. "I told you from the beginning that one would die," he says. I can pick out the faint traces of mockery and loathing under his cool tone. "Did I make a mistake? Pick the wrong one? Was poor Mareen your favorite?"

"Stop pretending," I say, refusing to let my voice tremble. "Mareen's death was _her_ choice. You didn't 'pick' anything." _Deep breath. Make sure he knows that I mean it._ "But she showed me the only way to fight you. No compromise. No deals. You murder children, Catiline. And I'll be damned before I keep playing your Game."

He sneers at me. "Idealist? You _are_ full of surprises, Caldwell. But if we're going to talk about murder, what about your brother? Letting him die because of this will be your choice. The blood will be on your hands."

Kev.

The name stabs at me, accusing. The instinct that he's my brother, that I have to save him, screams at me, no matter that I know the truth. I swallow. _Help me, Mareen._

"You and I both know that's a lie," I whisper. I feel Bren shift next to me, but keep looking at Catiline. His eyebrows pull together ever so slightly. I make myself continue, my voice strengthening as I go.

"I don't know why I didn't see it before. You said before that I had to surrender to you, or it would seem as if I, a mere victor, had beaten you. But our 'deal' . . . what does that prove? That a victor who had fought you could then force you to bargain? No, there's only one answer the Capitol has when someone defies you. Annihilation."

Catiline's face is perfectly still. He doesn't twitch, doesn't blink. If it weren't for the faint rise and fall of his chest, I'd think he was stone.

"So now I'm left wondering . . . why did you come to me? Why make that pretense at all? And the only answer that makes sense is because I was still struggling. Because, if I thought my siblings had no chance, the punishment wouldn't be enough—there would be no tension on my part, no real fear. So you upped the ante. You forced me to finally surrender my last scrap of dignity for a promise that you'd keep one of them alive. And then, you planned to go back on your word, so that I'd be left with nothing. No siblings. No hope. No fight. A fitting punishment for someone like me, one so complete not even Snow could claim I had beaten you."

I wait again, see if Catiline's going to comment. When he doesn't, I make myself keep going.

"Maybe you thought they'd both die here, and Mareen stopped you. Or maybe you really thought only one would die and just wanted to draw it out. Doesn't matter. You knew something like this would happen, and you decided to make it worse. You sequestered me off somewhere so I wouldn't be able to watch as the Careers laid their plans and my siblings were herded into danger. When they died, I would be taken by complete surprise. You arranged that I would be on-camera while it happened, so that all of Panem would see my downfall. You couldn't even give Mareen a fast death—I'm not stupid, I know those flames moved slower for her than they did for that kid before. You were toying with me, intentionally causing me pain, and if that's your whole goal. . . ."

_Forgive me, Kev._

"You're not going to let him survive. You never were. So tell me: why should I do anything you say?"

The pain twists, digging deeper, but what I don't expect is the extraordinary sense of relief that I've said it. That I've given up the Games, given up my focus on survival. That maybe, just maybe, I can win.

I also don't expect the expression of pure fury that fills Catiline's face. As I stare, it starts to . . . change. His eyes brighten, the black irises somehow widening until they cover his eyes, darker than the lightless hole my brother is in. Veins stand out in his face, blue, a delicate lace network, some horrible side effect of his surgeries, I'd guess, or maybe an intentional alteration. His lips part, breathing picking up, and I half expect him to breathe fire. If I thought he's nightmarish normally, he looks like a demon given life now.

Part of me is afraid. Part of me realizes that it means I'm right.

"You think you have nothing left to lose, don't you?" he asks and somehow, in an instant, his patrician face is back to normal, emotions concealed beneath his sly mask, irises normal size, glittering like black diamonds. "You think that death is the worst that can happen to him, little Livy? No. I'll make you a promise."

He leans in, so close that I can smell the balsam fragrance on his breath. "He will live. He will be the victor. And I will ensure that it destroys him like it did you."

* * *

><p><em>I barely notice the dress Petronius puts me in until he spins me around and forces me to stare at the mirror. Black, down to my knees, with a large red splotch across the front. There's a dark sash as wide as my palm wide looped across my chest and stomach, forming an X shape over the scarlet, almost like the markings on the back of a—<em>

_"Black widow?" I ask, touching the glass._

_"I thought it was appropriate!" Petronius chirps. "The poison theme combined with you being the hidden killer, the one they don't see until it's far too late!"_

_I stare at myself, watching as he places the victor's crown on my short hair. A black widow. "Yes. Appropriate."_

_He pecks me on the cheek, then expertly uses his finger to repair the smudged make-up. "Now don't forget, the audience already loves you! Just this one interview with Caesar, and then it's back home to rest for a bit before the victory tour!"_

_I can barely summon up the energy to nod. An Avox shows up five minutes later, and I follow, not thinking and not wanting to._

_I walk onto the stage, shake Caesar's hand, and take my seat. I don't know where I pull up the energy, because everything in me seems so lifeless right now, but I somehow plaster that over-confident smirk onto my face, project that same jaunty attitude that first started to win me fans in the Games._

_It's a bit like the shock I went into after my first kill. I know I'm making answers to Caesar's questions, and they must be good ones with the way he's alternating between laughter and seriousness. But none of the questions penetrate through my dead emotions into my head. They go straight from my ears to my mouth without being processed by my brain._

_Until he mentions Ames._

_"So tell me," Caesar asks. "With that little girl, the one you were so sweet to. . . I think all of us here at home were wondering one thing: was it real? Or did you play her just as much as you did the others?"_

_I stare at him for a second, and then something stirs under all the numbness, works its way past the fog._

_Hatred._

_The Capitol did this. Yes, I'm a murderer. I'm not going to lie to myself any longer, pretend that I was some sweet, innocent little victim. I'm not going to try to get out of holding myself responsible. But if it wasn't me who survived, it would have been one of the others. And the end would be the same for them. Sitting here, pretending to be thrilled that they're the lone survivor, having to relive the horror and guilt every day for the rest of their lives._

_If I hadn't been the one to survive, it would have been Ames. And she would have been just as broken as I am now._

_I don't know what it is that makes me want to be honest. Maybe that I know the Capitol will never understand, no matter what I say. Maybe Ames herself—maybe that gift she had of bringing out the best in people is still lingering here. Maybe I'm just too tired to come up with something else. Whatever the reason, I clear my throat, look away from the everything. For a second, all I see is that innocent girl._

_"Ames was a good kid," I say. "An amazing one, more selfless and innocent than I'd have believed possible." I hesitate, and realize that I haven't quite answered Caesar's question. He's waiting for me to finish. "Too innocent. I respected her, and the alliance was genuine. But she was too good a person. She didn't deserve to survive the Games."_

* * *

><p>The threat is too strong, too real, for my mind to truly process until Catiline has nodded to both of us and glided from the room. Then I turn to Bren. I realize that I'm shaking, the pain and grief finally allowed to break past now that the last push of adrenaline and necessity is gone.<p>

"I don't know what to hope for any more."

The confession is startling. Two hours ago, all I wanted was for Mareen or Kev to survive. Winning, losing, the cost of it, were all meaningless. But Mareen won and died, believing that that was better than survival. And then Catiline threatened to make Kev survive—and turn his victory into a living hell. Can I really mean that I want to follow Mareen's example, give my life for it if I have to, when it's not just my life any more, but my own brother's?

Logic says that nothing I do will change anything, that Catiline's declared open war on me now, but the thoughts won't leave me alone. Can I save him? Could I ever have? And how would I save him anyway; help him survive?

Or help him win?

Bren carefully takes my hand in his. Again, I'm surprised by the quiet pity in his eyes, and even more that it doesn't bother me. Normally I'd be spitting nails at seeing him look at me like that. "Come on," he says. "Let's get back to the mentors' room."

I nod and he leads me by the hand out the door, into the elevators, and down the hall, back into that metal room. Sanderson's the only one there, and as soon as we walk in, he mutters something about needing to check on the sponsors, scurries out before we make it through the door.

The room is the same as ever. Metal chairs. Metal table with its list of gifts and prices. Four TV screens, but when I look at them, I notice that one of them is black. Hers is black. Of course it is. She's gone.

I sit down, and I realize that the trembling hasn't stopped, that it's increasing, moving from my limbs to my heart, my lungs. I feel like there's a scalpel inside my chest, slashing up and down, making me choke and spasm.

"Liv? Are you—"

"I'm . . . fine . . ." I manage, some last vestige of foolish pride not wanting Bren to see me break down. But then I hear the anthem being played, and I look up and see Kev with his new allies, watching the roof of the cave where the faces always shine. I know what I'll see. But it doesn't make it any easier when the face of District 4 girl reflects off the black stone, and then . . . hers.

Kev's face crumples. Thirteen years old, but his look holds the anguish of a grown man, and I realize that he wasn't sure. That he'd been clinging on to the hope that the sound of her cannon was actually the Career boy's, that she was still out there somewhere. But now he knows. He knows she's gone, and she's never coming back.

"Mareen!"

His shout goes straight through my heart, pierces the last barriers. Before I know what I'm doing, I've seized Bren's hand and then he's picked me up, holds me to him as if I'm no bigger than a child, and all I can do is sob into his shoulder.

She might have won, but she's gone, Mareen is gone, and all her hopes and dreams, all her imperfections and flaws, everything that made her _her_ have been extinguished. Her spunk, her flirty smile, her fearsome temper—gone. All gone. I forget the Games, forget Catiline, forget my new determination to win. My beautiful sister is dead, and all I can do is mourn, but even that won't help because I can't reach her, can't do what I really want and bring her back, talk to her just one more time. She's dead, and it doesn't matter how close Bren holds me.

I'm alone.


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26.

I think one of the cruelest parts of the Hunger Games is that you don't have time to mourn or even think about what you've done. You're forced to keep moving, never questioning your decisions or sanity, because if you hesitate, you're dead.

That's how it is for Kev and I, at least. I'm drained, physically, mentally, and emotionally, and it somehow still takes me hours to cry myself to sleep. But when I wake up, even though I'm just as exhausted as when I fell asleep, I know it's time for the fight to continue. Emotional for me—physical and mental for Kev. Bren's grip on me is as tight as ever, but his head's tipped back and there's a faint snuffling noise in the back of his throat that's not _quite_ a snore. Janus is sitting there as well, but he doesn't notice I'm awake and I'm more than happy to leave it that way. On the screen, District 12—Devon—is trying to pull his team back into the Games.

"Come on, you two. We've got to move."

Neither of his companions wants to listen. Kev's acting like he's asleep, but I know him well enough to see he's faking. Chel, the blond girl, is sitting up, but her head's between her knees, long hair covering her shoulders and face like a blanket. That's right. She lost someone too—Iana, that older girl who was always trying to protect her. Before Devon can start shouting, though, she lifts her head and dries her eyes. He rounds on Kev instead, nudges him lightly with the toe of his boot.

"Kid, I owe it to your sister to take care of you, but if you keep laying around while the water's rising. . . ."

It's only then that I realize they're next to a bank of water that certainly wasn't there before. Apparently the Gamemakers have decided to step up that flooding idea. The stream doesn't _look_ harmful, but Devon's giving it a large berth as if he doesn't want to test it. Kev's only a foot away from the edge.

"I'll get him." Chel scrambles to her feet and, without so much as flinching, gets between Kev and the water so he won't roll in, then squats next to him and shakes his shoulder. "Anyone in there?" Her voice is softer than her words.

Kev rolls his head, squints up at her miserably. The lantern Devon's holding is dim, but Kev hasn't had that much real light in over a week and he shades his eyes, glaring as best he can at Chel. "Go away," he mumbles.

"No. We've got to get going." Kev looks like he's on the verge of turning back over, but Chel leans close and mutters: "I don't think he's going to wait for you. And your sister wanted you to stay with us."

Slowly Kev uncovers his eyes, turns his miserable look on Devon. I see my brother gather his strength, and then Chel gives him a hand and hoists him to his feet. He straightens, and in that small movement he somehow swallows his grief, the pain and loss that I know have left him feeling hollow and brittle as a dry log. They aren't gone and he's not ignoring them, he's simply setting them down until he can afford to touch them again.

"How's your arm?" he asks Devon. The older boy looks surprised at the question.

"Pretty badly gashed. But it's my left, I can manage. Yours?"

"I've got medicines that helped. You can borrow some if you—" Kev stops on the verge of pulling his backpack off again. "Oh," he says in a very small voice, "I forgot. They were in Mareen's bag."

Chel bites her lip but doesn't say anything. Devon seems to be studying Kev. "Are you going to be ok?"

"I don't want to talk about it." The words sound like what somebody in denial would say, but Kev's tone is different. He knows what happened, knows and feels it more than anyone in that arena, he just can't talk about it right now because he'd lose control. And, in the Games, control is more precious than anything.

Devon shrugs and scoops up his own pack, shoved against one wall, well out of the way of the rising water. "The passages back and to either side have been blocked. I guess that means we can only move in one direction."

It's a very subdued group. Devon's still moving, but he and Chel are obviously depressed by the loss of their ally, and even though Kev's somehow finding the strength to work through it, he's even worse off. Their only discussion is when they realize they're all but out of the food from the Cornucopia, and that's only a bit of comparing notes before they all realize there's nothing to be done but finish before they starve, shrugging, and walking on.

The main camera alternates between shots of them and shots of the Career boy, the only other competitor. They're all finding it harder and harder to wend their way through the labyrinth, with the water not only rising but destabilizing and collapsing different sections of the arena. If it wasn't for Devon's guidance, Kev and Chel would probably be dead by now; I'm surprised that District 2's boy is doing as well as he is until I remember that his district also mines. He doesn't know what he's doing as much as Devon does, but he's clearly been trained for underground survival. Even if this sort of arena isn't the norm, things like avalanches or earthquakes have often been key to winning Games—it makes sense that they'd teach him something.

For a while, I can't do much more than them, forcing myself to trudge through this, to shelve my grief and focus on the here and now. I throw myself into watching Kev, tallying up the meager supplies of water and gear he and his allies still have in my head, figuring out what's left of the arena, anything that might help me find some way to give him an edge or predict what's going to happen.

Sanderson comes back in after a little while and tells me that there's not enough sponsor money for more than a small gift anymore. I see on the table's screens that every item's cost has an incredibly long trail of zeroes behind it. Despite my ferocious focus on living in the moment, ignoring everything else, I wonder how that fits with Catiline threat to force Kev's survival. I almost ask Sanderson to use what little he has for antibiotics, but then realize that they wouldn't do much good—Kev's in the end game now, and even if he does get infected, he'll probably be either dead or declared the victor before he needs serious treatment.

After nearly two hours of watching them, though, I manage to pull back from the immediate and start to look at the bigger picture. And what I see is pretty bleak.

Kev's in a three way alliance. There are four players left. No matter which scenario I look at, that sort of setup can't lead anywhere good. If the group ends up confronting the Career, Kev's the weakest one and will probably be the first to go—Devon's twice as big as he is and seems to be functioning well despite his wound, and Chel's a head taller and uninjured. Alliances this late in the Games are rare, so it's just possible that the Gamemakers might actually take out the Career boy for the novelty of leaving only members of an alliance to battle each other, but that's hardly any better. Kev would never kill an ally, probably wouldn't even fight one, and not only are Chel and Devon bigger and strong, they're also likely to unite against him since they've been together longer. When your allies turn on you, what can you really do?

Bren stirs a bit, his arm shifting, and then he opens his eyes and looks blearily at me, sketching the arena on a pad of paper and still leaning back against his chest. "Hey," he mutters.

"Hello," I say. The close contact felt nice last night, and while he was sleeping I didn't think anything of it, but now that he's awake I hop from his lap to my own feet, take a seat in another chair. No matter how I'm changing, I'm still not about to cuddle with him as if we were together or something. "Sorry. I bet your arm's numb."

"I've had worse." He turns to the screens and his voice becomes brisk, businesslike. "What did I miss?"

I fill him in on the water and the alliance, then take a deep breath and decide to do something I've never done before. I tell him and Sanderson my worries about where the Games will go from here.

Along with not being demonstrative, I'm also not a very talkative person, and normally I'd rather cut my hand off with a rusty saw than discuss my feelings. So opening up—not just to them but, indirectly, to whatever Capitol peon is watching on the cameras—is uncomfortable to say the least. And I can't say I feel much better just because I got it out there. This situation's too desperate for those childish solutions. But once I see Bren and Sanderson both frown, both turn to the screens to evaluate my predictions, I _do _feel slightly more optimistic. These are two of the most brilliant people I know, and they're on Kev's side. Surely, they'll come up with something.

Sanderson turns back to me after only a minute's study. "I think you've largely got the right of it, Liv," he says, "but there _are_ a couple of things going for Kev too. You've never lived in the real poverty a lot of the people from the districts have, but you and your father accepted patients without money, right?"

He pauses, waits for my slow nod. "And didn't they almost always pay you back in some way?"

"Yes." I remember food showing up on our doorstep, and how our firewood pile never seemed to run out, even though Dad never chopped any. Sanderson nods as if he expected it, and I realize he must have come from one of those poorer families.

"I imagine District 12's following that same sort of code with his talk about 'owing.' And since Mareen gave her life to save his, he owes her a great deal. I honestly can't see a scenario where he turns on Kev, no matter how bad it gets."

That helps some, but not a lot, and I can tell Sanderson sees it. "The Games are also notoriously unpredictable, Liv," he adds. "And, to be honest, I think the kid's smarter than any of us. Just because you don't see anything now doesn't mean he doesn't, or that there won't be an opportunity eventually."

He pauses, glances at Bren to see if he has anything to add. Bren looks at me and hesitates. "Liv," he asks, "do you _want_ Kev to survive? Given . . . the situation? We don't have much power as it is—but even if we could change the outcome, would you want us to? Even if he lost because of it?"

I frown at him and turn to the screen to give myself time to think, watch as the group works to navigate over a river that's flowing full force. "I want him to win," I say slowly. "But it would be ideal if he could both win _and_ survive. And Kev's the sort of person it might be possible for."

Bren nods, opens his mouth, but whatever he's planning to say is drowned out by a trumpet fanfare. Instantly all three of us twist around in our seats, staring at the screen. We know that sound—Sanderson and Bren from their own Games, me from watching it happen on TV as a kid.

There's going to be a feast.

* * *

><p>AMES! Hold on Ames, I'm coming!<p>

_I can't say the words but I scream them in my mind as if thinking them hard enough will help her, warn her, protect her. Dannis is taller and more fit than I am, but somehow I match him stride for stride as we sprint back down the canyon with its caves. Have to get there. The gift is thrumming through my veins like blood, and for once I embrace it; I need every edge if I'm going to save her._

_We round a curve and there's Garnet standing at the mouth of our cave. She looks up. Sees me with Dannis. Looks confused for half a second, then gets it._

_Turns tail and runs._

_I take off after her, outpacing even Dannis, but then I hear him yell: "Caldwell! Drop!" and unthinkingly obey, bruising my palms on the hard fall._

_Something whistles over my head, and I look up just in time to see Garnet's knees fold. Dannis's thin javelin is lodged halfway through her gut and just like that, it's over. A hit there might take a while, but there's no way she's surviving it without medical help. No way she's still fighting._

_I pick myself up from the ground and brush myself off, feeling oddly empty. Unsatisfied. I didn't do it. I didn't even get close. It feels unsporting, almost, to watch her die when I wasn't the cause of it._

_Maybe that's why the gift vanishes. I don't know. All I know is that before Dannis has even reached me, my desire to make her suffer, to watch her die, evaporates and the desperation takes over. Garnet was standing at the entrance to the cave. My cave. Ames's cave._

_I turn back, dashing for the crevice, shouting at the top of my lungs. "Ames! Ames, it's Livy! Come out, come on, it's alright—"_

_A hand reaches through the small hole, then another, and Ames pulls herself out. I nearly bowl her over as I pull to a stop, grab her, try to check her for injuries before I've even regained my balance. "She didn't catch you? Did you take any falls or hit your head or—"_

_"I'm fine!" Ames looks calmer than I am, truth be told, but when she sees Dannis, and Garnet just past him, her face goes pure white even with its sunburns. "Livy. . . ."_

_"He's on our side," I say. But remembering that Dannis is there is like a shock of cold water in a furnace. I just swore to him that Ames meant nothing to me, and here I am losing it. He's still staring at Garnet so maybe he didn't see my little performance, but the audience sure did, and it'll take some work to convince them that this was faked for Ames's benefit._

_"We're going to have to take care of that girl—Garnet," I tell Ames, my voice and attitude once again all business. "You can go back in the cave or you can stay and watch."_

_Ames hesitates, looks at the cave, then back at Garnet. _Go,_ I plead silently, _You don't have to see this._ But I have to pretend I don't care or Dannis might very easily turn on us both. And I doubt either of us would survive that._

_"We're a team, aren't we?" she asks quietly, "I think that means I need to be there."_

_I shrug as if it doesn't matter to me and we move up to where Dannis is standing._

_Garnet's not dead yet, and from the angle, I think it might be a good half an hour or so before she finally bleeds out; the spear's still stuck through her, like a skewer, and the pressure from it's actually helping to staunch the blood. But Dannis doesn't want to get close enough to give her a mercy stroke, and when I look at Garnet—not her wound, but Garnet herself—I see why. Her face is murderous._

_"You betrayed me for _them?_" she snarls. Talking should be an ordeal for her, but she's so full of anger and adrenaline that she almost shouts the words. "You were my ally! I _trusted_ you! And you—you—"_

_The laughing, devious boy I know is gone. Instead, Dannis's face is solemn, just as if he was standing at the bedside of a dying relative. There's not a hint of guilt in his face, but unlike most of the Careers—or me—there's no sign of pleasure either._

_"Liv?" he asks. "How well do you throw your knives?"_

_I look from him to Garnet, and her face seems to morph into that other Career's. Bahari, the one whose throat I slit as much for kindness as for strategy. Can I force myself to do it again?_

_She tried to kill Ames._

_"I'm decent," I tell him. "But not fantastic. Honestly, I'm much better with a one on one fight than throwing them."_

_Dannis nods. "Make sure you hit perfectly, then," he says. As if I need reminding. I position myself carefully, trying to measure the distance, the weight of the knife, the angle. Like Dannis said, I can't miss or she'll pick up the weapon and fling it back at me. I hear Ames shifting uncomfortably, standing between us but a good five feet behind so that I can't see her expression—I don't want to think how her innocent illusion of me is about to be shattered._

_Garnet's watching me, eyes narrowed, body tense. "He'll come after you too, you know! It'll be you eventually—and I'll be glad! Because you'll take him down—"_

_As I take the blade by its tip, pull my arm back to throw, she moves._

_I freeze, barely stop the knife from leaving my fingers. I expect her to duck or dodge somehow, maybe even try to stand and run, but instead she grasps the shaft of the javelin and _yanks. _I'm too shocked to move, can only stare as she throws her head back and screams. But she keeps tugging, and then there's this horrible ripping sound and the weapon pulls free._

_Blood gushes from her stomach, but she doesn't seem to care—there's a crazed glint in her eyes, and the spear's in her hand, and she lunges to her knees, flings her arm forward. I try to throw myself in front of Ames, but it's too late to react, the spear's already flying—_

_Straight into Dannis's thigh._

_Garnet and he fall at the exact same moment, she gasping and choking, him holding his leg. For a little while, Ames and I are so shocked that we don't move, but then Garnet goes still and the cannon shot echoes through the canyon, so loud it may as well have gone off in our ears. It's as if the sound's a signal, because we both dash towards Dannis at the exact same moment._

_"We were stupid," Dannis mutters as I crouch next to him, look at the blood. "Should have expected Garnet to fight."_

_"We'll talk about that later," I say. "Show me your leg."_

_I see him pause, a slight hint of fear crossing his face as he watches me, trying to gauge the risk. I haven't been exactly trustworthy around him—always waiting until the Careers are vulnerable, when they're least expecting an attack, and then striking. But we don't have time for this._

_"I have some medical training," I say impatiently. "And you don't have much of a choice except to trust me and Ames right now, do you? Unless you want to do what Garnet did and pull that thing out yourself. I wouldn't recommend it though—if it hasn't nicked your femoral yet, it probably will once you start yanking a blade around in there."_

_I don't wait to see what his answer is. Dannis hasn't got a choice and he knows it. Instead I turn to Ames. "Go through his pack, find a blanket or something to make bandages."_

_She obeys and, still not looking at his face, I turn to examine Dannis's leg, slowly stretching it out, ignoring his hisses of pain as I do. It was a clean throw. Straight through the muscle and out the other side, no nicking the bone or anything like that. And, for all my dire warnings, it doesn't seem to have hit any major blood vessels._

_"You, my friend, were very lucky," I say. "Once Ames gets the bandages made, I think I can pull this out without a problem."_

_As my hand brushes against the shaft again, he flinches. "Are you sure we can't just leave it in there? Sounds more comfortable."_

_I finally glance at his face, but now there's no sign of distrust. He's that same friendly, competitive boy who allied with me against the other Careers. I return his slight smile, but when I look down my heart is pounding for some reason, and I'm starting to doubt myself._

_Why am I doing this? I can kill him right here. Right now. It'd be easy. In fact I should. Dannis helped me, true, but he also just helped kill his own ally. How do I know that he won't do the same thing to me, like Garnet said? I need to take him out before he can turn on me and Ames._

_I don't know the answer to my own question. I just know that I've decided, and in these Games if you look back, try to rethink things, you're dead. When Ames finishes shredding the blankets and I've cut the shaft as close to his skin as possible, prepared everything else I can think of, I tell him to brace himself, pull the thing through as carefully as if he was a patient back home._

_I'm going to regret this._

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>EStrunk and reviewers both deserve extra thanks for all their wonderful comments/critiques! I got past 100 reviews after last chapter, and that made me do an excited little happy dance around my room. So guys? Thanks.

Just in case anyone's wondering about the chapter count, I've got 29 total listed, although the last one might be split and there's a side one shot I'm thinking about posting. So anywhere from 3-5 more chapters before Legacy ends. Hold on, because the road's only going to be getting bumpier from here!


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27.

"Congratulations to every one of you for making it this far!" Templesmith's voice proclaims, magnified as it bounces off the stone walls. "No one can doubt that your Games have all been exceptionally well played, and that each of you is worthy of winning. But there can only be one victor."

All three of us are frozen, watching the screen as Kev and his allies wait to hear what new torture's been devised for them. Only one thought makes it past my paralyzed brain. _There are always deaths at feasts. Always._

"Because of this, your feast will not be something that can be shared by allies. If a group of people attempts to claim the items together, the consequences would be . . . regrettable."

Templesmith pauses, waiting for that to sink in. Then he continues: "The question, of course, is how to get there. If all of you look at your feet, you will notice that there is a stream leading into a tunnel. Follow this tunnel until you come to your destination.

"You have two hours."

Silence. All the tributes stay still as the echoes of Templesmith's voice fade. A clock appears on the corner of our screens, counting down the time. After a moment of thought, the Career from Two shrugs, picks up his pack, and slings it on his back, following the stream. There goes one.

The three allies are watching each other warily, as if worried one might attack while they're looking at the other. Then Devon shrugs. "Doesn't look like we have an option. They want the allies to fight, that's why they're doing this. I'll try to leave you two until last if I make it."

"Don't you think—"

"It's not going to work, Chel," Devon snaps. "I don't want this any more than you do, but we all knew there's going to be one victor no matter what we do. They're forcing the issue, well, we've got to play their game."

Chel's face is panicked, and I can see why. Whatever Templesmith said about deserving the crown, she and Kev are the weak ones and everyone knows it.

Kev, on the other hand, seems to have been given new energy. Maybe I shouldn't be surprised by now—like me, my brother does best when he's been backed into a corner. "We'll leave you alone to try and get the prize, then," he says. "You'll have a better chance if you're just fighting one person, and we'll have more time to get away from whoever wins. It helps all of us."

Devon nods, hesitates, then hands them his pack. "It'll just slow me down. You two go ahead and split it between you. Good luck, Chel. Kid."

The two of them stand there, watching as he follows the stream, his lantern growing dimmer and then disappearing altogether. Chel turns to Kev, her eyes wide with fear and the darkness. "What are we going to do?"

Kev. Thirteen. For a moment, he looks it. A thirteen year old boy who's been orphaned twice, lost both sisters, and abandoned in the dark by the last protector he had. And then he shakes his head and his face firms. "We ally. It's the only chance either of us has for surviving against the two others."

Chel nods, and some of the hope relights in her face. "Where should we go, then? Back to the Cornucopia, maybe, if we can get there?"

"No. All the tunnels at the Cornucopia went up from there. It'll be underwater by now." Kev pulls off his own pack and rummages through it, then pulls out another pair of the night glasses. Trek's. I hadn't realized he had the presence of mind to grab them. He hands them to Chel, who puts them on and gasps. Able to see properly for the first time in weeks—I can only imagine what that feels like for her. When she looks up, Kev's already heading in another direction. She hurries after him, making almost as little noise as he does.

"So where are we going?"

"To the feast."

"But . . ." Chel pulls up short, looks from him back to the stream and back to him. "But we can't take what's there, not if we're together. And isn't it _that_ way?"

"Not quite." Normally, Kev would grin about this, be so pleased at proving that—once again—he's outwitted everyone. Now, after Mareen, his tone is as neutral as if he's discussing the weather. "I've been figuring out the arena. There's only one place the feast can be."

"Where?" Kev keeps walking, and after a minute, Chel shrugs and follows him.

"Didn't you smell something at the stream?"

Chel's face lights up. "Sulfur right? And . . ." She frowns, trying to remember. "And wasn't there that same smell going into the fire cavern? Where—where—"

"Mareen died. Yes." Kev's voice is very, very calm. Too calm. "The Gamemakers like having a grandiose stage for their feasts; I'll bet you anything the feast will be there. We just have to figure out another way to reach it."

"But—but—" Chel looks more confused than ever, and I can't blame her. Bren, on the other hand, has a disbelieving grin on his face, and I see Sanderson shaking his head.

"Brilliant, kid," he mutters.

"Brilliant?" I repeat. "This doesn't make a termite's worth of sense. What—"

Chel asks the question before I can. "But why are we even _going_ to the feast? I'm alright with a sword, I guess, but we can't beat both of them, and we can't even have what's at the feast if we're working together. We should be getting as far away from that place as we can!"

"Exactly. Devon thinks we're going in the opposite direction. The Career will probably decide that too when we don't show up. We're not going to fight or take what's at the feast, we're going to _hide_ there. Right under their noses. We'll see who wins, then they'll head off in some other direction, and we'll have the advantage."

"Oh." Chel pauses for a moment to think about it, but when Kev keeps moving, she hurries after him. "It's risky. Even for the Games."

"You don't have to come. If you're in, help me figure out how to get there faster."

It's a good thing that Templesmith gave them two hours, because it takes the them a long time to make their way through the rocks. Now that Kev's answered her questions, Chel stays quiet, only speaking to help him find his way through the passages. I'm surprised at her knowledge of the labyrinth—it's not quite as extensive as Kev's, but Devon's obviously been teaching her how to survive in the tunnels. Twice she figures out how to get around flooded caverns, and another time she stops him from taking a shaky passage just seconds before it crumbles. I'm glad they're going to the feast, because I have a sneaking suspicion that the rest of the arena's going to be collapsed in a couple of hours.

In the mentor room, things are more tense than ever. All the other battles were surprises, at least for me, but now that we're waiting for the fight, everyone—Janus, Lewis, even Martin—joins us in the room, waiting for the inevitable. Janus tries to chat about how thrilling this is, but when no one else chips in, his voice dies down, and soon we're as silent as the tributes are.

District 2 is the first to arrive.

His stream leads into what used to be the bottom of the fire cavern's cliff—exactly where Kev said it would be. But the set-up's changed dramatically in the short time since Mareen died. The fires are gone, replaced by torches positioned along the walls at every height, leaving parts of the room well lit and others shrouded in darkness. The ground's become a long, shallow lake, perhaps a foot deep, but rising steadily. The two former entrances, the ones on the top of the cliff, have crumbled. Instead, there are dozens of small tunnels leading to the lower level where he is, water pouring from their mouths. Even more streams have been diverted into this cavern from different heights, forming miniature waterfalls as they pour inside, or bubbling up from the ground like springs. District 2 takes a minute to wade out, look around, but when it's clear the time's not up yet, he sloshes across and positions himself beneath an overhang at the bottom of the cliff's face, boulders screening him from view. You'd expect the place to be eerily quiet, just going off the atmosphere, but of course that doesn't happen. The entire cavern's echoing with the noise of the waterfalls, until it sounds like there are hundreds all around. Sight's the only sense that's going to help anyone right now.

District 12 arrives minutes later. The earlier path his stream took, the one that ended up with him on top of the cliff, has been blocked off again. Instead, it diverts him down, right to the bottom of the rock shelf. He looks like he's about to go out and explore, but then the Career shifts and unintentionally sends a long shadow up against the wall. Devon hefts his pick-axe and settles down to wait.

Chel and Kev are the last to get there, following a stream that turns into a tiny waterfall reaching ten feet or so above the lake bed of the cavern. They don't see the others, but Kev's smart enough to know that that doesn't mean much. They only have five minutes until the feast begins, after all. He pulls Chel backwards with him, out of sight of the caverns, and when he speaks his voice is so low, covered as it is by the noise of the cavern, that the screens write up the words. "Remember. We're just here to watch."

Chel nods and the two of them edge forward, staring down at the cavern. After a minute of searching, Chel grabs Kev's arm and points to where Devon's standing, just visible from their angle. Kev gives her a thumbs up to show that he's seen him.

The timer's down to thirty seconds now. Twenty. Ten. I realize I'm clutching Bren's hand, but have no memory of how mine got there. Three. Two. One.

* * *

><p><em>The current sweeps Kronos and I down together and I get a mouthful of blood before I somehow pull free, gagging, spitting desperately. I try to tread, to move, but there's nothing for me to hold onto, just slick surfaces and a fast current, and I can't really swim anyway. I go under before I know what's happening, clothes heavy on me, the scent of copper filling my nostrils, stomach heaving.<em>

_I'm going to drown. I kick, but the world is red and sticky and I don't know if I'm going down or up and I'm moving faster than ever, spinning like a leaf in a windstorm, the current increasing, sucking me under. Bubbles leak from my mouth, my hands are flailing, and then my forehead smashes into something, and my blood's mingling with the river's._

_I'm dazed, my head ringing, vision white and snowy. I feel as if an axe has been lodged just above my right eye, but my body's in survival mode and I bring my arms around whatever it is, haul myself up._

_I surface, gasping, choking, and see that I've grabbed onto a long, jagged bit of rock, sticking like a fang from the bloody maw of the river. As I suck in air and look around, I realize the rest of the teeth form__a loose semi-circle, with gaps between them two or three body-lengths apart. Lucky I managed to grab this one, even if I almost had to split my skull doing it._

_The roaring in my ears isn't just my battered head, I realize. Still clinging to my rock, I look farther over and see the bloody river swirling, picking up speed, and then it just vanishes. A waterfall._

_Not good. I'm stranded on this rock, nothing to help me get off, so when I slip—and I can feel my grip already going numb—there's a waterfall that's who knows how high. I spit out more of the salt and copper coating my mouth, my tongue, my teeth, and focus on breathing. _Come on. Think.

_But before I can come up with anything, something heavy rams into my back. I nearly lose my grip, and then I feel fingers wrap around my neck, squeezing the air out. Kronos._

_I try to twist free, to fight, but I can't, I'll lose my grip on the rock, and I'm short on air, about to black out, the pain in my head nearly bursting from my skull, my lungs screaming._

_My fingers loosen their grip, my arms tear against the stone as they're pulled away,__and then the current's seized us, sweeps us off together for the falls, Kronos holding me down. I'm going to fall. I'm going to go first, a shield to break his fall._

I don't want to die.

_The thought releases something. The gift roars to life, and suddenly I'm fighting, struggling, slipping around inside Kronos's fingers. I rip my nails across his face and pull free, latch myself onto his back, and then we're sucked down, falling, falling, him underneath, me holding on desperately, red all around us—_

WHAM.

_Hitting the surface is like hitting cement. My grip is gone and I'm tumbling over and over, no breath in my lungs. The blood isn't pushing me anymore; no current. I try to move, kick out, and to my surprise, connect with the ground. I push myself up and break the surface, realize that I've been pushed to the edge of a pond, the water level—or blood level, I suppose—only reaching my chest. The edges are lined with large white rocks that don't glitter like the ice, and I see the arena's red sand past that. The waterfall took us off the mountain._

_Us. I spin around as best I can in the blood and see Kronos picking himself up from it. He's dazed, reeling and staggering from taking the impact of both our falls, but he slogs towards me, knows that we've got to finish this._

_I back up, trying not to stumble, reaching for something, _anything_ that will help me fight, but Kronos launches himself at me, holds me just under the surface. I fall backwards into the pool's shallows, writhing, fighting, him on top of me, and he's not letting me up—I'm going to drown in blood._

_And then my fingers close on the rocks lining the pond. I'm half panicking but my hands reach around the crevices, pulling at them, begging one to come loose. I rip two nails out and then it comes free in my hand, a giant rock__the size of a skull, so big I have trouble holding onto it._

_I don't think. I don't aim. My arm rises from the water, smashes straight into his head, and his grip loosens. I keep pounding, and then I'm free and sit up, grip my weapon with both hands, suck in the air and scream at the top of my lungs as Kronos falls backwards, feebly holding up his hands, as if he's trying to ward me off, beg for mercy._

_I bash his head again and again and again until he goes still._

* * *

><p>Nothing happens.<p>

"What's going on?" I mutter to everyone and no one. There's no answer; they're just as confused as I am.

And then Chel spots it and the cameras zoom in on the two small shapes—one long and thin, the other a fist-sized lump, that have risen from the ground as she points. Not the ground of the lower level though—no, whatever they are, they're atop the cliff where no one can reach. Once again, she gets Kev's attention and makes sure he sees it, but the other two tributes are clueless. Kev frowns, and I see the same question in his mind that's in mine: what's the point of the feast if no one's able to get to it?

The other tributes don't know about the prize—they can't from their angles. After another five minutes of waiting, District 2's patience breaks. He pokes his head out from behind the rock, then comes out from his hiding spot to search for it. Chel gasps when she sees him and Kev seizes her shoulder to make her shut up, but the boy doesn't hear the noise over the running water.

Devon isn't so cautious. As soon as District 2's boy makes his appearance, he steps out from his stream's culvert, pick-axe held over one shoulder, both hands clenching the haft. The Career looks him over and calls out: "Just you and me? Guess I'll have to hunt down your allies once I'm done. They aren't going far in this."

Devon doesn't answer. He has his legs planted firmly on the ground, pick at the ready. The Career unsheathes his sword.

As they run towards each other, the cavern lights flare to life, impossibly bright for simple wood, illuminating the arena as clearly as day. District 2 sprints in, water spraying with his footsteps, sword held like an axe. Devon doesn't move, is about to get his skull split, but then he throws himself to the side—the Career goes stumbling, and Devon rolls, picks himself up, swings at the boy's back. The Career barely twists out of the way, goes down hard in the water, throws his sword up between them, only to get it lodged in the thick haft of the pick.

They're frozen in that stance, each bringing his muscles to bear, trying to force the weapons towards the other. Devon brings a hand to either side of where the two weapons meet, and slowly the pick begins to lower, the sword coming closer and closer to the Career's face until the Career's leg comes up, plants itself in Devon's stomach.

Devon's pushed back, gasping, and the Career manages to twist, yank his weapon loose, stand up. Now they're circling each other, Devon regaining his wind, the Career his balance. Chel and Kev are motionless as they watch them.

Devon kicks out, sending a spray of filthy water into the Career's eyes, closes with him before he can react. They both go down together in the water, Devon's hands locked around the boy's throat, rolling over and over, weapons gone, each trying to pin the other under the water.

I'm so focused on the fight that at first I don't see Kev looking up, feeling the walls. Chel's doing the same thing, but the two others are too caught up in the struggle to notice that the caves are shaking again, that bits of stone are dropping from the ceiling. Another cave in? Now?

And then there's an almighty crash and I see a glimpse of a swollen river bursting through one of the small tunnels, not so much forcing out the stone as dissolving it, and then another and another, and suddenly the water level's rising faster than ever and Devon and the Career go under. A minute later, they resurface, separated by their need to breathe, each trying to tread water, to grab onto something that will help them stay afloat.

_This is how they get the prize,_ I realize,_ the water's going to carry them up to it._

Kev pulls Chel backwards with him, trying to get them back up the tunnel, but they climb fifty feet back up, perhaps, and then see that the newest shakings have closed off the exit. Chel grabs Kev's arm. "What are we going to do?"

"Back into the cavern. It's our only shot. We'll stay at the corners, out of their way."

They head down again, but just as they reach the part where the tunnel levels out, several hundred feet from the cave mouth, the stream goes still and then begins to rise, rise back into the tunnel and up. The main camera swings back to show what's happening, and I see that the lake's reached their waterfall's level now, that it's filling up their tunnel, already too high for them to wade through, blocking off the way back to the cavern.

They're trapped.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Credit where credit is due: EStrunk, you're amazing!

This is going to be my last author's note because I don't want them interfering with (hopefully) the emotional punch of the last couple of chapters. So let me say here and now: every single one of you who's reviewed has been fantastic. I've been floored by the amazing responses this out-of-control story got, and I want to thank all of you guys for taking a chance on me.

What's next for me? Well, I have some vague plans about returning to the Batman Begins/Dark Knight 'verse, but that depends on one of my characters who might or might not cooperate. There are also a couple of other stories kicking around in my head- I blame my best friend for getting me hooked on _Supernatural_ and _Once Upon a Time_- and some original fiction that I'd like to try to make into a novel for my senior thesis next year. So we'll see. It's all pretty preliminary stuff, though, and since I like to have my entire story drafted before I post it, I won't be too active on here for a few more months at least.

Thanks again to all you readers, and I hope you enjoy the finale!


	28. Chapter 28

Many thanks, as always, to the incredible EStrunk!

**Chapter is rated M for violence and psychological darkness.**

* * *

><p>Chapter 28.<p>

"Well," Kev's voice is faint, echoing against the water and the rocks like a ghost's. "This is it. It was a good Game, Chel."

"That's it?" Chel looks at the water, forehead creasing as she tries to process it. "Can't we just swim out?"

Kev kicks a rock into the rising water. It's slowing now that the tunnel's sloping up, but they've still only got fifteen minutes, tops. "You can try if you know how to swim—the most I can do is paddle. And it's too far for that. The water's taken up, what? One hundred feet of tunnel? Two hundred? Then you've got to make it to the surface in there and don't forget it's all in the dark because there's no way our glasses will stay on while we swim."

Chel doesn't say anything and after a minute Kev kicks another rock into the water and turns away. "Come on. We might as well stay as far back from it as we can. Maybe, if we're lucky, they'll kill each other while we wait and the one of us who doesn't drown will be declared the victor. It's our best shot."

There's a struggle and then calm resignation takes over Chel's face and she nods.

But not for me. Something fierce and protective rises up, refusing to die no matter how bad I know the situation is. Rebellion.

"It can't end like this," I mutter. "It _won't_ end like this. Drowned like a rat, not making a stand. It won't. I won't let it."

Martin, sitting on my other side, almost looks like he wants to laugh. "What are you going to do? You've played all your cards, and there weren't many to begin with."

"I don't care. It won't—it can't—" I feel that wild panic rising up, the desperate need to do something, _anything_ if it will keep him safe. Get sponsors, beg the Gamemakers, find Catiline and agree to anything, betray anything, sell myself body and soul, kill or die or break—

No. I'm past that. I'm better than that. Mareen died rather than do it. Kev is willing to. I have to do the same. I have to work for redemption even if there's no way I can earn it. I close my eyes, breathe deep. _Mareen, help me._ "I know Kev," I say. "If there's a way out, he'll find it."

When I open my eyes again I try to watch the other two, Devon and the Career, each treading water, staying well away from each other, trying to hold on the walls of the cavern to help save their energy. But it doesn't last long. I look at the other screen just in time to hear Chel say: "I think I'm going to miss my big sister the most."

Kev turns to her. "You have a big sister?"

"Yeah, she stopped being eligible for the Games two years ago. And three brothers. And two younger sisters . . ." she grimaces, tucks a strand of long blond hair behind her ears. "I had to take tesserae after my parents got in an accident and were too injured to work. We all did. Nine every year, plus the one name that's already put in. Big families have it the worst; we can each take more tesserae and there are more of us in the drawing anyway. It would have been a miracle if we'd all come through."

Kev hesitates, then wraps his good arm around her shoulder. "I bet they're proud of you."

Chel sniffles. "I hope so. I hope Devon makes it. He's earned it. Besides . . . I hate that Career. More than anyone."

"Do you?" Kev cocks his head as if he's considering it. "It's strange. I don't think I do. Not really."

Chel sits up, and her tone is suddenly angry. "Why not? He helped kill my friend. And your sister. And all those kids at the bloodbath."

"Because . . . because it's all he's known," Kev says. "It's all he's been taught. If you and I learned nothing but killing and hating and destroying, maybe we'd be like him. Besides, he isn't responsible for what's happening to us right now. He's not the one drowning us. That's . . . ."

He's coming close. So close to saying it. Blaming the Capitol, holding _them_ accountable for the thousands of dead children these Games have seen. For Mareen. For Dad. For me. And why shouldn't he? He's kept quiet until now, trying to save Mareen first and then to stay alive. But now he's dying either way, and I don't care what happens to me now. Before he can, though, Chel stops him.

"What's that?"

"What?" Kev twists around and sees that she's pointing to something trapped between two rocks. Something silver. A parachute.

Hope surges in my chest. He and Chel scramble up, dig and pry through the rock until the gift comes loose. It's so small it fits in the palm of Kev's hand. The camera zooms in and I see a fist sized piece of black plastic with a mouthpiece and two straws attached. I've never seen anything like it before, but there's only one thing that it could be—only one thing that could possibly help keep them alive at this point. Sure enough, Kev puts it in his mouth, walks over to the nearby water, and barely hesitates before he dips his face in. He comes out dripping but not choking. It's some sort of breathing mask.

This changes everything. Eager now, he and Chel tuck away their glasses, take hands. Kev suggests that they pass the mask back and forth between them and Chel agrees. But just when they're waist deep in the water, about to take the plunge, Chel asks: "Who do you think it was meant for? Me or you?"

Most tributes would just laugh it off. Ask who cared or claim it was obviously theirs, and aren't they being generous for sharing it. Not my brother. He considers the question, and as he does I turn to Sanderson, Bren, wondering the same thing. It can't be them; they haven't left the room. And they don't have the sponsor money for it.

"Is there any way . . ." I'm very conscious of all the eyes turning towards me. "Can it be meant for Chel? Could she have the funds?"

"No." Bren's voice is flat, giving me the facts and trying to hide any emotion behind them. "Something like that would have been at a premium the first day. Now it's not being sold at any price."

They're all still watching me. Watching me come to the same conclusion they must have already reached. That if it's not Chel's mentors and it's not us, then it has to be someone else, the one person who has the power to ensure that Kev makes it, the one who swore to me that he would.

Catiline.

* * *

><p><em>The canyon is so quiet that I have to worry it's a trap. I move through it slowly, walking on the balls of my feet. I clench a scalpel in one hand, one thought in my mind. <em>He killed Ames.

_I may have lost, but I'll make absolutely certain that Dannis Luster doesn't win. He will pay for her death._

_The canyon's deserted. I move warily, circle back around, and then walk the passage again, so silent even Kev couldn't outdo me, but there's no one here. The only sign there's ever been someone are the faint bloodstains where Garnet met her death and Dannis got that spear in his thigh._

Did he manage to drag himself out of here?

_But no. There's no way he could have—I saw what happened to his leg and there's no way Dannis could have hauled himself from the canyon so soon after his injury. I don't care how desperate he is, there's no way he left._

_Which means he's in Ames's cave._

_I don't know why I dislike the idea so strongly. It's just a crack in the rocks. It's not as if he desecrated her grave by hiding himself in there. But in a way, it feels as if he did exactly that. He's already killed the girl. Does he have to take advantage of all the help she gave him as well, hiding in her secret spot, the one she only showed to people she trusted?_

_I move more carefully than ever, but the crack's thin and small, and I have to twist and flail to push myself inside, worried every second about an ambush while I'm helpless like this. Once I'm in, though, the stench hits me and I realize that my caution wasn't necessary. The foul odor of human waste swamps me and mingled with it is a horrific, putrid one I've smelled too many times before in District 7. Gangrene._

_It takes me a minute to spot Dannis in the comparative gloom. He's a long, skinny lump flopped across the floor. His back is to me, and for a few seconds I just stand there, wondering what to do now. Then he sucks in a breath, rolls himself over to face me. I'm surprised he's held on this long—once gangrene starts manifesting, it moves fast. His face is as sunken as a corpse's, worn and somehow seeming ages older than I am in the dim red light._

_"Caldwell . . . I bet you're furious with me."_

The swim is one of the most terrifying moments of the Games. They're blind, barely able to paddle, fettered by their hold on each other, passing a tiny mask between them. If either of them dropped it or panicked or—worst of all—decided to turn on the other and swim off with the mouthpiece, it would mean death for the other. Their level of trust, especially for near-strangers, is nothing short of awe-inspiring.

I don't know what to think, watching them. Do they still have a chance? Do I want them to? It seemed so simple just a few minutes ago—if Bren or Sanderson or one of the Capitol sponsors, even, had come up with a way to help them, I'd be ecstatic. But it's Catiline. And he wants Kev to lose. Lose and survive. Like I did.

_"Furious? Why would I be furious?" I don't move from where I'm standing at the entrance to the crevice. I'm blocking most of the light, but there's enough for me to watch Dannis as I speak. His spear's gone; probably still lodged in _her_ belly. His clothes are filthy, and even from where I stand, practically blind with the sun at my back, I can see that he's taken off the bandage—his wound and the surrounding skin have turned black._

_Dannis grins at me. I used to think it was an attractive grin, good natured and competitive. Now it looks like a skull's. "Because I killed your ally. Not one of the people you used and then killed. Not even one like me that you worked with and thought was an equal. A real ally. A friend, even—someone you were ready to kill and die for."_

_Ames. I remember the panic attack when I thought Garnet would kill her. How I tried to take a spear for her. I thought I'd covered it up, that Dannis didn't know,_ couldn't_ know that it was real. Of course, I thought she'd go home too. Shows how brilliant my plans are._

_My expression hasn't altered, but Dannis must sense the growing danger because he raises a hand towards me as if he wants to make me back off. Which is interesting since I haven't even taken a step towards him. "Wait. I did it for you."_

_I blink. It's not much but, from me, the motion's as good as a shout of surprise. The curiosity is just enough to take the edge off my lust for his blood. I lean back against the wall, fold my arms, waiting for him to explain._

_"I knew it was a real alliance," Dannis repeats. "That you'd gone soft. And I could understand—she was a sweet kid. She really was. But then you killed Kronos, and it was down to the three of us."_

_"And you realized she wasn't any more use to you," I whisper._

_"No!" Dannis tries to sit up, then falls back again with a cry of pain. "I realized it was just us. I knew I wouldn't make it by that point, so that only left you and her. I thought—can Caldwell really kill this kid? Should she have to? And I realized both times that the answer . . . was no."_

_For a second I just stand there, trying to take it in, to process the thought. He killed her. So that I would survive. He killed her. For me. And that means I killed her._

_I killed her twice—when I abandoned her and when Dannis killed her. For me._

_Dannis sucks in another breath. "It's just a Game, Liv. High stakes, bloody, filled with chaos, but still just a Game. Everyone else here, they got scared or over-emotional because they couldn't see it. I did. And you did too, until you met her." Another breath. "I always said I wanted it to be you or me. I warned you."_

_"Yes. You did." My voice seems to echo in my ears. For me. He killed her. For me._

_"You should know that I made it quick. She never saw it coming, and I made sure it was clean. Not like Garnet. I know you're going to kill me, so all I'm asking is . . . make it easy for me too, alright? You're the one who knows medicine. Keep it as painless as you can. Please."_

_He killed her. For me. I haven't won. I never can, now. Because of him. Because of me. She died for me._

_"You made one mistake," I whisper. His eyes widen, dart to the scalpel in my hand, but he can't find the strength to move._

_"Caldwell, please—"_

_"She wasn't just my ally," I tell him. "She was more. She was what kept me human. Sane."_

_I walk up close to him, lean down so that the cameras can't hear me, so that I'm whispering in his ear. "So tell me, with her gone, why should I keep pretending? Why shouldn't I be a monster? Why shouldn't I _enjoy_ this Game of ours?"_

_I straighten up and look down at him. Lying at my feet. Helpless. Pathetic. He killed her. For me. My voice is ice. "You chose for me to survive. You chose to keep me instead of her. You chose _wrong._"_

_I tighten my grip on the scalpel, slowly bring it up to his cheek, press it until a single bead of blood pools there and then the surface tension breaks and it runs down the metal, red on silver._

_It's not quick. It's brutal and bloody and hours long. It's everything the gift wanted, everything I've held back these Games. But no matter how I make him scream, there's no pleasure in it. I want to make him pay, but the revenge doesn't bring me anything. Not joy, not satisfaction, not redemption._

_By the time I drive the scalpel into his heart, I'm screaming as much as he is. Because I'm damned, I've damned myself a thousand times, and I still can't bring her back. Still can't save her. She's still dead._

_For me._

* * *

><p>They surface noiselessly.<p>

Only a few torches are still lit, ones above the cliff where the feast's gifts are positioned. Kev and Chel hang back, watching, treading water, as the two other tributes swim close to the cliff face, trying to climb up.

Then, all at once, Two somehow launches himself from the water and rolls onto the cliff. He races for the center of the shelf, where the feast items are, seizes something, and spins around just in time to face Devon.

A spear. Like the ones Dannis used, but with a thinner, longer head. Almost a harpoon. He edges his foot under the other object, still not in focus, kicks it into his free hand like I've seen other boys do with balls. The Career doesn't seem to throw the spear like Dannis did, but now he's got a weapon and his competition doesn't. Devon hangs back, just barely out of range, Two stabbing at him whenever he gets too close—after a minute, they start circling like animals, waiting for an opening.

All at once, Devon launches himself in the air and the spear arcs forward, takes him in the side. He lands on the Career, still fighting, the two of them rolling over and over, each trying to push the other in the water, snap the other's neck, and then the Career grabs the spear's haft, twists.

Devon lets go, writhing, screaming as Two keeps his hold on the harpoon, yanks it through his gut. He stands, plants a foot on Devon's stomach, and uses the leverage to take the spear from his body, but when it comes loose, Devon grabs the spear haft, holding it so that the Career can't use it again. For an instant the two of them are locked there, fighting for the weapon, and that's when a rock sails through the air, hits the Career in the back.

Kev and Chel have risen out of the water, and they're ready to fight.


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29.

The Career recovers first.

He kicks, sends his foot straight into Devon's wound. Devon lets go, gasping, and before anyone else can react, the Career sends the harpoon right back at him, straight into Devon's eye. He yanks it loose and spins around before the cannon sounds.

"Three," I whisper.

Chel lets out a cry at her former ally's death, but she and Kev keep moving in from the edge of the cliff. They separate, so that they can't both be in range of the Career at the same time. Kev's hefting a rock in each fist and Chel the sword she somehow managed to hang onto in her swim. The message is clear: target one and the other will go after him.

But rocks aren't much, not against a big kid like this guy, one who's learned to kill with nothing but his hands and feet. His eyes dart between the two and he rushes Kev. Smaller, wounded, no real weapons.

Kev's always been quick. He ducks under the spear thrust, darts in too close for the Career to use his weapon again. The Career plants his free hand on Kev's chest, pushes him to the ground, but there's some blur of movement I can't quite see and then Kev's got an arm around his neck and they fall together.

Kev swings his head up, forehead bashing into the Career's nose. The Career howls, automatically loosens his grip, and Kev headbutts him again, ramming it as hard as he can, trying to hold on until Chel can reach him.

One of the Career's hands comes up, seizes Kev's head by the hair, smashes it back against the rocks. The other raises the spear, Kev grabs at his face in a last-ditch effort to get him off, I'm screaming, want to duck and bury my face in Bren's shoulder but—

Chel's sword stabs the Career, glances off his shoulder blade. He howls, rolls over and stands up, facing her, twirling his harpoon in one hand like he was born to use it. She's uninjured and armed, he's bleeding freely from his shoulder wound, but he's also trained to fight and about five times her size. He no longer looks human—his eyes are like those of a monster out of legend, mad with pain and hate.

He charges. Chel parries, sends sword and spear both above their heads. Her eyes are wide, face pale, but when he tries to kick she jumps back, holding the sword in front of her. Kev picks himself up from the ground, fist sized rocks in either hand, but he can't throw because Two charges again and he might hit his ally.

The Career's spear is so fast that it's a blur, spinning around and around Chel, so quick that it's all she can do to stay alive. She blocks some—most, even—of his blows, but she's only able to protect the vital bits and the Career's trying to bleed her first, weaken her up, make her afraid. He takes a hank of her blond hair, the laces from her boots, slashes lightly across either arm. Chel's not attacking anymore, she's backing up, driven towards the water, trying desperately to stay on her feet, keep any of the fatal blows from making it through.

"Stay there, kid!" Sanderson shouts, but it's too late. Unable to throw, Kev takes a running leap, lands on the Career's back, arms around Two in a bear hug so he can't wield the spear. Chel darts in and Two barely parries in time, tries to block again but his arms are almost pinned and her sword snakes out, slashes across his stomach.

For a split second, a glorious second, it looks like this might be it, that they'll take him down. But then the Career's free hand darts up, grabs Kev right on his wounded arm. Kev screams and lets go, falls to the ground and the Career's arms are suddenly free.

Chel tries to block in time, but she doesn't expect the attack. His spear rams between her ribs, straight into her heart.

He lets go, pushes her backward. She drops her sword, tries to catch her balance, grab his arm, something, but it's too late she's already falling, arching back—back—back—down into the water.

The Career and Kev both stare at the place where she's disappeared, waiting, paralyzed almost, until the cannon goes off. Then the Career stoops down, picks up her sword.

"Two," I whisper.

He turns towards Kev.

* * *

><p><em>"Ladies and gentleman, I present the winner of the forty-eighth Hunger Games, Liv Caldwell!"<em>

_The echoes of Templesmith's announcement ring through the arena, bounce back and forth around the crevice where I sit. I turn away from Dannis's mutilated body, make my way out of the cave and head down the canyon. Once I'm far enough that the hovercraft can pick it up, I sit, bring my legs up to my chest and rest my chin on top._

_Normally I have trouble keeping my face calm, containing all my emotion in one cocky smirk. Right now, it's the opposite. My face is as dead and cold as what I feel inside. Pretending emotion, even the smirk, takes monumental effort._

_I've survived. Won. I expect to feel pleasure from it. Or pain. Or loss. Or _something._ But instead, all I am is cold. There's no hope or dream that will make what I've done any less real. That will make any of them come back to life._

_Maybe I'm in shock. Maybe. All I know is that I feel nothing. Just this exhausted numbness absorbing me, like anesthesia dripping through my veins. I watch the hovercraft lift Dannis out of the arena. Then another comes for me._

_I stand, place my hands on the ladder, am frozen in place. They draw me up, release me. I don't move, and so after a minute the attendants guide me over to a seat, start to examine me for wounds or flaws. I'm healthy, though. Dehydrated beyond belief, covered in blood, with a couple of minor injuries and a possible concussion, but it's still far better shape than most victors are. The medics press a bottle of strange-colored water into my hands and sit me down.__One of them starts cleaning that gash on my head. I just stare at the water in my hands, vaguely wondering if I should do anything with it._

_Maybe they're wrong. Maybe I'm dead. Because I can't be alive. Not with this utter emptiness. That's not right. People—living people—aren't supposed to be blank slates. And I can't feel anything anymore. So maybe I'm dead._

_But then I realize that I can breathe. And that means I'm not dead. Not physically. I suck in air and push it out a few times to prove it to myself._

_As the hovercraft pulls back over the Capitol, docks at the hospital, I stand, no more emotion behind my actions than if I was a marionette. I obey the medics' orders, follow them out onto the landing pad, but the whole thing is automatic._

_One thought builds itself in my mind, echoes around in the empty spaces._

_I survived. But maybe I didn't truly win._

* * *

><p>I can't breathe. I'm trying to suck in air, but I literally <em>can't breathe.<em> My brother's there, the final two, but it doesn't matter because he's alone, weaponless, facing up against a Career who's already insane, already killed his two stronger allies.

Kev does the most sensible thing I can think of. He turns and runs.

There isn't far to go. The water's rising above the cliff now, swallowing up his ankles, and he stops just short of where it turns truly dark, on the other side of the cavern from the Career. I expect Two to automatically give chase, cut him down as he tries to get away, but instead the boy stays where he is. I see him put a hand to his stomach, take it away covered in blood. He needs medical attention if he's going to live, and that means he needs to end this soon. But he's also moving slower with the injuries, and he's just fought several people, not to mention half an hour of swimming. He's as exhausted as Kev.

Kev reaches down for a rock with one hand. With his other he searches his pockets—I don't know if he's hoping for a weapon or if he means to pull out the breathing mask.

The Career laughs. Breathless, stuttering so that it's almost painful for _me _to hear, but it's a laugh. "You—you really think that—that _that's_ going to help? Try jumping in the water. Go on. I've got—got a mask of my own." He lifts the other gift from the feast, and Kev stares at it in the dimly lit cave. The Career is starting to advance on him now, making his way slowly across the huge cavern.

"Where did you get that, anyway? Way back at the Cornucopia? Or was there another part of the feast I didn't see?"

"Sponsor gift." Kev tenses as the Career keeps coming, but the water's higher than ever now, reaching to mid-calf on the Career, sloshing around his feet as he walks, slowing him down. Two laughs again.

"Don't give me that. A puny thing like _you_ getting a high tech sponsor gift like _that?_"

Kev doesn't say anything, but the Career's words make him dart another glance at his mask. And suddenly I see the wheels turning in his head, Kev putting together the facts as only he can do.

"They want me to survive," he whispers. The acoustics of the place makes the sound somehow carries over the water, catch the Career's attention.

"Who does? Your darling victor sister? Your pathetic allies? _Mareen?_ Oh wait. She's _dead._ she can't save you anymore. No one can."

"No. They couldn't send me this. Only the Capitol could." The calm, the cleverness, the charming façade Kev's created all Games disappear, replaced with loathing. With the hatred we all feel, but Kev's the only one with nothing left to lose, the only one brave enough, smart enough to fight them. "_They_ want me to survive."

They want him to survive. Catiline promised me. I feel chaos surrounding me, churning, conflicting ideas and hopes throwing themselves against each other, clashing and thundering as if I'm at the center of a storm. If Kev survives, Catiline wins. If the Career survives, he still wins. A sense of doom, of all-consuming fate, envelopes me. It's not just these Games anymore. Kev's actions will determine what happens to all of us.

I reach out, clench Bren's hand as the storm rages around us.

The Career stops just out of range, gathering his strength, preparing to charge. Kev raises his hand and the boy flinches back, expecting a rock in the face, and something goes flying.

But it's not a rock. It's the mask. Flung deep into the water, barely splashing as it sinks like Chel did minutes ago.

The Career is so shocked that he doesn't get his sword up in time. Kev charges straight for him, pushes him back. He's not targeting the whole Career, though, he's going after his arm, trying to pry the boy's mask from his hand. The Career slashes his sword across the back of Kev's legs but he won't let go and he's too close to stab. He tries to jerk his hand free, but then Kev catches the webbing between his thumb and hand in his teeth, bites hard, and the mask falls into the water.

Somehow the Career pulls away, hand and stomach and back bleeding, the mask gone. The boy senses it too now, that this is bigger than just them, that Kev is somehow the one in control, and he's angry, bewildered by it, like a fighting dog who's discovered he's been pitted against a wolf. "What do you want?" he bellows. "What's your plan? You think if you just get rid of my mask you'll be saved? You think _that's_ going to help you win?"

Kev's look is fierce, triumphant. "They force us to play their Games. They want me to be their victor so they can destroy me. They killed my sister, my dad, my friends for entertainment."

"So just let me win, then!" District 2 shouts. "Let _me_ be the victor if that's what you want!"

"No."

I realize what Kev's going to do a split second before he does it. He attacks. The Career's sword comes up just in time, stabs high in the chest, but Kev still rams into him, knocks them both towards the edge of the deep water. His leg hooks around the back of the Career's knees and then they're both going backwards, the Career trying to stay up, Kev's weight forcing them under. The boy screams as he starts to sink, but Kev's voice carries over him.

"There won't _be_ a victor."

* * *

><p><em>15 Years Later.<em>

_I'm in the garden when the Peacekeepers come for me. Four of them, fully armed and armored, against little old me. I don't bother putting up a fight, not even when they trample over my sage bed and pat me down for weapons. I might be older and supposedly wiser, but I still have that childish need to remain dignified. Giving them an excuse to beat me half to death just because I chose to make a 'statement' is not going to fit with that._

_Besides, I've been expecting this visit for a while. Even this long after Mareen's and Kev's Games ended, I always figured it would only be a matter of time before the Capitol found out what I do and decided I'm more trouble than I'm worth._

_I am, after all, the leader of the rebellion._

_They finish deciding that a weaponless, five foot nothing woman isn't a threat and grab me by the collar, hauling me out of the Victor's Village. I stumble after them as best I can, trying to keep my composure and balance, but it's not easy. That injured leg never did work right after that beating fifteen years ago. I can't help but wonder how long I'll be able to hold out when they start questioning me. I'll try to give my allies time, but I have no heroic illusions about myself; eventually, with enough torture, they'll force me to talk._

_But instead of taking me to the train station to be shipped off to the Capitol, or the Justice Building for interrogation, they lead me down a set of back alleys. After a minute, the Peacekeeper even lets go of my shirt, although the gun one of them shoves into my back keeps me from running._

_We round a corner, circling around the main square, and I stop short, ignoring the growls of the men behind me. There, just coming out of a shop, is Bren._

_He doesn't see me, but I can't help watching him as he turns away from the merchant, heads back toward our house.__There's a slight stoop to his shoulders now, premature grey threading his dark hair, but he still carries the heavy crate of groceries he's bought as if they're weightless. Why haven't they arrested him? How could they not realize my husband's as much of a revolutionary as I am? We've been married for seven years, and we'd been considered a couple by the Capitol for years before that. If they know I'm the leader of the revolution, they have to know Bren's working with it too._

_I want to call out to him, say good-bye. But he'd put up a fight, give the Peacekeepers little choice but to kill him. And after all the years of unconditional love he gave me, the patience as he waited for me to realize I loved him back, what he sacrificed to protect me from Catiline, he deserves to live. I doubt he'll see it that way, but he and I both knew this day would come. Agreed, even, that the other should survive to carry on the fight against the Capitol. So instead of calling out, I keep my head down and allow them to push me forward again when he vanishes down another street._

_I hope he knows that my last thoughts will be of him._

_"Am I going to be executed?"_

_The lieutenant doesn't say anything, but I get the answer soon enough when we pass that square by too. It's deserted except for a lone man in the stocks, and there are always crowds for hangings. So that's not my fate either._

_Even about to die, even knowing it will hurt Bren, I don't regret starting the revolution. I think I was the only one who really could._

_The fallout from my siblings' Games was tremendous. The most unpopular Games ever—I think they'll do anything to avoid not having a victor again. When Snow used that as a pretext to execute Catiline, he cemented his own power, but he also made me an unintentional example to the districts of a person who successfully defied the Capitol. Even if it cost me everything, even if his death gave me no pleasure in the end, I made good on my promise._

_Catiline never hurt another child._

_After that, many of my fellow victors were more than willing to listen to my ideas to bring down other high ranking officials, turn Capitol citizens to our side, stir up anger in our districts, all while hiding from Snow's notice. We even managed to make contact with the 'legendary' District 13 last year and with that alliance formed, the firewood laid out, I can sense the war brewing, waiting for the right person to come along and light the spark._

_It's a pity I won't live to meet them._

_We take another turn into a deserted back alley, and my stomach drops._

_Johanna._

_The girl I mentored in the Games last year. The one tribute I was finally able to bring home. Ever since my Games, they've always been taken out early, probably as punishment for me. We got one boy, Blight, out but never a girl—District 7's gone from a powerhouse to being nearly as pathetic as District 12. Johanna was the first tribute who managed to beat the odds. She's abrasive when she gets mad, where I act cool and biting; I pretended to be stronger than I was in order to survive the Games, she pretended to be weaker; I'm subtle and manipulative where she's pushy and in your face. But somehow, we're more alike than different. Although I'd rather die than tell her, in some ways she's like the daughter I could never have._

_Only now, three Peacekeepers are holding her back and she's screaming her head off, struggling against them, fighting and clawing, sobbing hysterically. In front of her, across the alley, are four bodies. Her mother, her two older brothers, and her boyfriend._

_Her head jerks up in her thrashing and she sees me._

_"Please!" she screams. "Please, I take it back! Tell Snow I take it back! I'll do what you want, whatever you want, just don't—don't—"_

_Understanding bursts through me, followed by pity. This isn't about my rebellion at all. This is about Johanna._

_We really are more alike than we want to admit. Like me, she's refused the Capitol. And, like me, she's paying the consequences. Snow's killing everyone close to her, like he did for Haymitch and Lyme and myself. Not just her family, in this case, but anyone she was close to that the Capitol can afford to lose. And I, the person who helped Johanna through her ordeal, the troublesome victor that Snow can't stand anyway, the one person who understands what she's going through, am a perfect choice._

_Still, he won't send her siblings into the Games like he did mine. The deaths are quick and painless, over fast. The disastrous Games fifteen years ago were enough to ensure that much mercy._

_"Johanna!" I shout—I have to shout to make myself heard over her screams—"Johanna, be quiet!"_

_Her mouth snaps shut almost involuntarily. After I got her through her Games, she listens to me absolutely. She's still crying, though, and I see the same desperate look in her eyes that I had as I watched my siblings get reaped. The guilt and fear, yes, but mingled with it unreasoning, unrelenting hatred and despair. A fire that will consume her from the inside out. She really is very much like me—too much._

_I want to tell her that there's life after this. Love and purpose and maybe even some measure of peace if she looks hard enough. I want to tell her that there's redemption and forgiveness. But I can't find the words to say it, and even if I could, the grief and horror and fury that are rolling off of her like waves tell me that she'd never listen._

_Instead, as they force me to my knees, place the gun at the back of my head, all I can do is look her in the eye and hope that she'll understand some day. I raise one hand, imagine that I'm grasping hers in it, trying to comfort her, to tell her that I'm ready, that I've been ready for years._

_I can feel Mareen standing next to me, telling me to be strong. Kev, ready to lead me on. And I know that, after fifteen long years of exile, I'm about to go home._

_"It's not your fault," I whisper. "It never was."_


End file.
